


The Masks We Wear

by JayPendragon



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Addiction, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Slow Build, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2020-07-27 08:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 96,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20043151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayPendragon/pseuds/JayPendragon
Summary: When Peter Parker meets Quentin Beck during his internship at Stark Industries, he’s immediately drawn to the charismatic and genius engineer. Quentin's not only hot but charming, attentive and doting – the perfect boyfriend.Peter is too enamored with Beck to realize he’s deluding himself about the nature of their relationship. By the time Beck reveals his true colors, Peter finds himself desperate to break free of a situation that threatens to swallow him whole...Slow-build Peter/Quentin that devolves into an abusive relationship. Eventual Peter/Tony.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Me: Hm, it's sad that I don't really see Peter/Mysterio.  
Merlenhiver: Yeah, me neither.  
Me: Except....  
Merlenhiver: ....?  
Me: ... as an abusive boyfriend AU. With eventual Peter/Tony.  
Merlenhiver: !!!!!
> 
> Twenty-four days later, here we are. I have 4.5 chapters ready and an outline. Can't promise how frequent updates are going to be, but I will do my very best to make them regular ;)
> 
> Beta'd by the awesome merlenhiver ♥ Without your cheerleading, encouragement and feedback, this wouldn't exist in the world. I'm so glad we have a new WIP!

On the anniversary of Ben’s death, Peter makes it an entire three hours before he screws up. 

The twelve StarkPads he’s supposed to set up around the conference table are now strewn across the floor instead, and every employee who isn’t supposed to notice their current intern is staring at him. 

Including his immediate supervisor, Mr. Jessup, who – yes, is giving him the Glare of Doom. 

“I – I’m so sorry, sir,” Peter says and dives to the floor to gather up the tablets. 

At least Mr. Jessup doesn’t reprimand him in front of everyone, which is more than Peter knows interns in other departments can say. Then again, those interns aren’t sixteen, so maybe –

“Here.”

Peter blinks at the StarkPad that has just appeared in his field of vision. 

“Good thing they’re designed to be sturdy.”

The voice belongs to a tall, kind-faced man with a three o’clock shadow and stunning blue eyes which are currently trained on Peter. 

“Um, yes. I… Thanks.”

“No problem.” The man smiles. “How about you go left, I go right?”

It takes Peter a moment to understand the guy’s suggesting to help him distribute the tablets. A quick glance at the clock confirms he’s running behind if he still wants to fetch more mugs for the coffee station and refill the diet coke that for some reason disappears quicker than he can restock whenever the marketing department is involved in anything. 

So he hands over six StarkPads and goes through the tedious process of connecting them to the virtual conference room environment. His unknown helper is much quicker than Peter, however, but before he can offer him another StarkPad, the guy is gone.

He re-appears two minutes later with a tray of diet coke bottles. 

“Thank you so much, man,” Peter tells him when, at two minutes to eleven, the rest of the meeting participants descend on the now perfectly prepared conference room. 

“Don’t mention it. I screwed up much worse when I was in your place. You’re doing great.”

“Beck, stop distracting Parker,” Mr. Jessup suddenly cuts in, and Peter pulse gives a sudden jolt, cause that means the helpful, smiling man’s –

“You’re Quentin Beck,” Peter blurts, much louder than necessary for how close they’re still standing. “Your work on realistic holography is groundbreaking, I’ve read all about it, it’s gonna change the way we look at –”

“Parker!” 

Quentin gives him a parting smile, then moves towards his spot at the conference table while Peter tries to get his mind back on the tasks ahead.

Even without meeting one of the most promising engineers at Stark Industries, it would have proven difficult. May had suggested he stay home, but Peter had shaken his head. Ben has been gone for 364 days. Day 365 shouldn’t be any harder than the rest. 

How wrong he was. 

After his embarrassing mishap with the StarkPads, Peter bumps into another employee on his way back to Human Resources and promptly makes them spill their Frappuccino all over the floor. Peter loses the next twenty minutes to informing Maintenance and then helping the lady they send clean up the mess cause well, it was his fault.

That means he only has fifteen minutes left for lunch, which he uses to scarf down a sandwich from the cafeteria before trying and failing to remember which report needs to be copied for the Board and which goes directly to the executive branch. 

“I told you to write it down, Parker,” Mr. Jessup says after a long-suffering sigh when Peter finally gathers the courage to ask him. 

Of course he messes up the settings on the copier – and seriously, it’s 2016, why can’t they just send their documents digitally – which causes a paper jam, which delays Peter even further. 

It also distracts him enough that he forgets what’s waiting for him in the Shipping department, where he has to drop off the reports to be couriered across town.

Right. Janice is a _Star Wars_ fan. 

She owns the same Boba Fett figurine that was one of Ben’s favorites. 

Peter’s certain his eyes are wet when he hands over the envelopes, but Janice barely spares him a second glance. 

No one pays him any attention either as he takes the few flights of stairs that separate him from the cafeteria, and by the time he enters the lounge, he feels much more composed. 

He heads straight for the coffee machine when –

“Parker, was it?”

_No, no, no…_

“Quentin Beck, but you knew that already.” 

Peter thanks whatever gods look out for interns that he has yet to press a button, cause getting hot chocolate would certainly do nothing for his reputation.

“Peter,” he manages, and shakes the proffered hand. Beck’s grip is strong, with a hint of callouses on his skin. 

“What’re you getting?” Beck nods towards the coffee machine. 

“Uh, cappuccino.”

“Mind if I join you?”

Any sound Peter could have made in response would have been quite embarrassing, so he simply nods and watches the other man get their beverages. 

At this time, the cafeteria is blessedly empty. It’s too late for lunch and too early for dinner, though there’s a 24/7 cereal and salad bar available in case anyone grows peckish. Peter still can’t believe that even he, as a Junior Intern, is allowed to help himself for free. 

Beck sets down their mugs on one of the low coffee tables surrounded by plush sofas and armchairs that are usually occupied whenever Peter has time for a break. He can’t bring himself to lean back and slouch, though, so he has no idea if they’re as comfortable as they look. 

He fumbles for his mug and takes a sip. He can feel Beck’s eyes on him from the armchair, and when he glances over, he sees that Beck has mirrored his position and is perched on the edge of his seat. 

“Mr. Jessup sent me to check on you. He thinks he might be riding you a bit too hard.”

Peter blinks. “Really?”

“Is sarcasm still a thing these days, or has that gone out of style?”

It surprises a chuckle out of Peter. 

“You do seem a bit… frazzled, though. Everything alright?”

The sincerity in Beck’s tone is as unmistakable as it is confusing. 

“Um, yeah,” Peter says, forcing himself to maintain eye contact. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You’re not usually this distracted. Or as much of a klutz.”

“I’m – wait. Usually?”

Beck gives him a soft smile. “I’ve seen you around, mostly on errands. I’ve seen a lot of interns come and go, so I know what to look for. You’re quite promising. Well, not today. Wanna talk about it?”

Peter’s mind is still stuck on the fact that Quentin Beck actually noticed him – and not only that, he’s formed an opinion on him. A favorable one.

“You don’t have to, of course,” Beck says, leaning back. “Just thought you could use a friendly ear.”

“I…” Peter bites his lip. He doesn’t want the man’s pity, but he wants to decline his offer even less. “A year ago, I lost my uncle. He’s one of my guardians. I didn’t think today’d be so – but it was. And I… Yeah.”

When Peter lifts his gaze, he’s surprised to find a soft look in Beck’s eyes. Definitely not pity. 

“Brave of you to try, Peter. Not many people would have done that.”

Peter ducks his head, but he doubts that’s going to hide his blush.

“I didn’t,” Beck says. He’s not looking at Peter, and his shoulders have slumped. 

Peter doesn’t know what to say so he waits, hoping to convey the same willingness to listen that Beck extended to him. 

When the man speaks, his voice is low. “I had a twin sister. We were inseparable, a real handful. She died when we were 19.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I still miss her. She’s been gone for almost half my life, but still. Feels surreal. I always take the day off. Well, it’s my birthday, so no one questions it.”

Peter feels his stomach drop. How Beck manages the wry smile is a mystery. 

“You should, too, in the future. You’re a good kid. No one’s gonna think less of you.”

All Peter can do is nod cause his throat is too tight for words, and he fumbles for his cappuccino to keep himself from fidgeting. 

“Anyway,” Beck says, taking a deep breath. “How’re you liking Stark Industries so far?”

Peter jumps at the topic change with a surge of gratitude. “It’s awesome. Sure, it’s just a junior internship position, but I’m already learning so much and I’ve got my foot in the door now, so –”

“Yeah, best to start early. Where’d they put you?”

“I, uh, started out in Supply Chain Management.”

Beck grimaces, but Peter rushes to explain it really wasn’t bad, and besides, if it wasn’t for the deputy department head, Linh Cao, one of Aunt May’s college friends, Peter never would’ve gotten the chance.

“I didn’t wanna, you know, exploit our connection, but Linh said that’s the only way to get in, and if I don’t intern before my junior year, I’ll never build enough of a relationship with the company to make it into the co-op program.”

“You know what you want. I like that,” Beck says. For the first time, Peter notices that his cheeks dimple when he smiles. “But HR’s your third stop, right? Junior program’s four departments, or’d they restructure that, too?”

Peter doesn’t know how Tony Stark’s decision to shut down SI’s weapons manufacturing a year ago could possible affect the internship programs (beyond reducing the number of positions available due to the defunct department), so he ignores it.

“No, no, it’s still – I was in Finances before this. It was… really…”

Beck lifts a prompting eyebrow. 

“Um… Interesting.”

A beat.

“You were bored out of your mind, weren’t you?”

“Gawd, yes,” Peter admits, and Beck laughs. 

“Can’t blame you. What’s your fourth stop?”

Peter sobers immediately. “Uh… Engineering.”

The smile Beck sends him is blinding. 

“Great. I look forward to having you in my department. Well, it’s not my department… yet,” he adds with a wink that does strange things to Peter’s chest.

“M-Me, too. I really like engineering.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Peter nods. “Always liked the mechanical aspects of it, you know, building things with my hands, and I thought I’d go into that, but electrical’s kinda awesome, too, you know, like the arc reactor? Though I guess that’d be mechatronics…”

“Well,” Beck says, “Stark keeps his tech close to the chest, so I won’t be able to dazzle you with that…” 

“Oh, that’s not – I mean, like I said, I read all about your breakthroughs in holography and I, I’m fascinated, really.”

Beck’s smiling again, wide and warm. “I’ll tell you all about it, then.”

With that, the man rises. Peter scrambles to his feet, too. “Thanks, I – it’s an honor. Can’t wait.”

“Me neither,” Beck says, lifting a hand to give Peter’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Take care, Peter.”

Peter is too baffled by the touch to reply.

*

After all the build-up, it’s a bit of a let-down when Peter doesn’t see Quentin Beck at all on his first day in Engineering. 

He meets just about everyone else, though, cause the vice department head, a young woman with elaborate braids who tells him to call her Shuri (cause he’s apparently bound to butcher the pronunciation of her last name), is big on team building by her own admission.

“You have to be, really,” she says, “in a department as big as ours.”

It’s true – Engineering at Stark Tower is _huge_. It houses all stages of development for every current project, from inception to final prototype, including the extensive Research and Development division, while production takes place elsewhere. 

Yet that has only been the case for the last nine months, ever since Tony Stark decided to move to New York for good and turn his Tower into an innovation hub in the company’s post-weaponry era. Signs of the ongoing transition are evident, like the last wave of growing pains before everything falls into place. 

“Which is why,” Shuri concludes, “we got some spare room and you, dear intern, get your own office.”

Said office is one of the worktable-desk-combos that seem to dominate the department, ensconced by rather tasteful blue dividers. 

“You’ll have to get settled in later; Bucky said he needs an extra pair of hands yesterday and he’s on a deadline, so that is where you go.”

Peter spends the next several minutes that it takes them to walk from the bullpen on the nineteenth floor down to the robotic subdivision on fourteen wracking his brain to remember where he heard that name before.

The guy’s metal arm jogs his memory, though. 

“Mr. Barnes,” Peter says, not waiting for the man to look up from the incredibly cool prosthetic leg he’s working on, “I’m Peter, Peter Parker, the new intern. How can I –”

He stops abruptly when Barnes points towards a StarkPad two tables over. Peter diligently picks it up and waits. When Barnes simply keeps gazing through his magnifying glasses and pick at the circuitry underneath the artificial kneecap, he looks to Shuri, who can’t contain her laughter. 

“Mr. Barnes?”

The look the guy levels at him could incinerate iron. 

Puzzled – and more than a tiny bit intimidated – Peter takes a closer look at the tablet in his hands. When he presses the home button, it asks for biometric ID. Peter glances at Barnes, but the guy’s returned to his wires, so he does the only reasonable thing and… holds the built-in camera up to his face. 

‘Access granted’ flashes across the screen, then dissolves to a CAD interface Peter’s only ever seen in leaked photos. 

“Oh my god, is this StarkCAD?” he asks, but he’s already scrolling through the layers of the product file that was open. 

A chuckle makes him look up. 

“Yeah, you’ll do.” Shuri gives him an approving smile. “Once you’re familiar with the design, Mr. Manbun over here should be ready to introduce you to your first task. Ask if you got any questions; these are required for a presentation on Friday and yours is the only pair of hands we can spare. And take him to lunch, will you?” She glances to Barnes. “Cafeteria’s closed on Sundays and I doubt he noticed the sun come up.”

Peter stares after her as she leaves the room. 

He soon understands why no one else has volunteered to help James Buchanan Barnes, veteran of the 2008 Time Square bombing, who lost an arm when he shielded a young girl who would have been hit by shrapnel after the detonation. It hit Barnes instead, whose promising career in military engineering came to an abrupt end. 

In an act of amazing PR, StarkMedical offered him a prototype replacement. Eight years later, Barnes has taken over the prosthetics division and is famous for his out-of-the-box thinking, his long hair, and his short temper. 

Beyond that, the help Barnes needs is exhausting and tedious. Peter’s hand starts cramping after two hours, but he’s too giddy to care. Seems like they’re preparing the next generation of prosthetic technology as proof-of-concepts for a shareholder meeting. 

Might also be an investor meeting, Peter isn’t clear on that, since Barnes has yet to exchange more than three sentences with him. The guy doesn’t even respond to his nudging about lunch, so Peter takes the initiative and brings them back a stack of sandwiches. 

He does the same for dinner, and breakfast the next morning, cause he totally fell asleep over the prosthetic shoulder he was working on. It’s not the first time that happened – Peter’s prone to forgetting time when he’s in a flow state – and he doesn’t regret it in the slightest that he looks like a zombie as a result…

… until he bumps into Quentin Beck. 

“Peter, hey. I see you’re assimilating well.”

“Uh, yeah, I – Mr. Barnes needed help and I sorta, um…”

“Forgot you’re allowed to clock out at five?”

Peter nods, rubbing the back of his neck. Damn, he needs a shower.

“Don’t let it happen again. We don’t want you to burn out in your first week here.”

“Yes, Mr. Beck. I promise.”

“Call me Quentin.”

The request has a better effect on Peter than five shots of espresso ever could (not that he’s had that many… he stopped at three), and once he stammers his way through an awkward goodbye, he feels like he could go for a week-long marathon of prototype prep. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t end up that way. 

One moment, Peter’s resting his eyes cause he just finished the shoulder-and-arm prosthetic, the next he wakes up to something cold on his elbow. 

“Time for you to go home, kid,” Barnes says. His eyes are alert, though his skin has taken on a decidedly pale hue. Good thing he’s wearing a full beard, otherwise he’d probably look even more disheveled. 

“For you as well, sir.”

Barnes doesn’t react – he’s already returned to his workstation. 

Peter takes a deep breath and approaches. “Sir?”

Nothing. 

He steps closer. Reaches out, intending to tap Barnes on the shoulder – 

But metal fingers close around his wrist, stopping him mid-motion. 

“Sorry, sir – you weren’t responding and I, I didn’t mean –“

Barnes releases him, keeping his eyes trained on Peter’s face. No, not his face - his lips. 

Wait a minute… is he _lip reading_?

Peter glances at the man’s ears, but he can’t spot anything that looks like hearing aids.

“Took you long enough.” Barnes smirks. “Fucking things distract me when I’m working. I need the silence.”

“I…”

“Stop blushing, kid, and go home. Get some sleep. Be back bright an’ early tomorrow morning. And don’t skimp on the sugar when you get my coffee.”

Mortified, Peter nods, then hightails out of the office. 

*

After that, Barnes talks to him more – or maybe Peter just learned a better way to converse with him. 

They wrap up the prototypes by noon on Thursday, six hours ahead of schedule. By the time Peter packages the last one, Barnes has returned from his lunch run to the nearest restaurant, cause he’s sick of sandwiches and wanted to stretch his legs. 

“Smells delicious,” someone says as Peter’s halfway through his carton of perfectly spicy Gang Ka-Ree curry. 

The newcomer is a balding man on the short side, wearing a shirt and tie as well as a pair of black-rimmed glasses. 

“You ain’t gettin’ any,” Barnes tells him through a mouthful of Pad Thai. 

“Cold,” the man tsks. “And you wonder why people call you the Winter Soldier.”

“I don’t. Kinda like the nickname. Sounds way cooler than ‘Drone Daddy’, eh, Will?”

“It’s William.”

“So many syllables. Take pity on the cripple.”

The man, William, heaves a sigh and turns to Peter. “If you’re done with this by two, Quentin said you’re allowed to sit in on a meeting in three-oh-nine. Don’t bother showing up if you’re late.”

Before Peter can say so much as ‘thank you’, the man’s gone. He shoots a questioning glance at Barnes, who rolls his eyes. 

“William Ginta Riva, head of our UAV division. Unmanned aerial vehicles,” he explains at Peter’s blank expression. 

“Drone Daddy,” he says, which draws a grin from Barnes. 

“Damn, Will hates that name. Spent weeks campaigning to change it to Peregrin, after the falcon, but you don’t get to choose your own nickname. SI don’t work like that.”

“Will I get one, too?”

Barnes snorts. “Dream on, kid.”

Well, Peter figured that. “What’s, uh, what’s Quentin’s nickname?”

“Oooh, first name basis with Mysterio already,” Barnes sneers, then shoves another forkful of food into his mouth.

“Mysterio?”

“From way back when,” Barnes says, still chewing. Peter wonders if he’s doing it to be contrary, or if that’s just how the guy is. “Nobody knew nothin’ about him.” He swallows. “Started thawing after his first promotion, going out with colleagues and all that, but the name stuck. How’d you meet him?”

Peter gives the cliffnotes version, leaving out anything Quentin shared in confidence cause judging from his tone, Barnes isn’t Beck’s biggest fan and the last thing Peter wants is to give him leverage. 

At least Barnes’ antipathy doesn’t extend so far as to keep Peter from the opportunity, so at three minutes to two, he enters conference room 309 armed with pen and paper. 

Quentin nods at him from the head of the table, corners of his mouth quirking, and Peter has to rein in the smile wanting to spread across his face. 

It’s a progress meeting for R&D, led by Shuri and a great way for Peter to gain an overview of the department’s current projects. It’s also really motivating, cause one of the teams is part of SI’s co-op program. They’re in their first year, but already developing real products for SI, and how cool is that?

Peter’s glee falters a little when he takes a closer look at their calculations. 

Something’s off. 

The students, a young woman in a hijab named Zoha and a guy who goes by ‘Flash’, have designed an adhesive fluid that mimics the properties of spider webs. In their presentation, they state the adhesive qualities last for ten hours, which could be useful in certain situations, yet how did they achieve such long-lasting effects with the materials they used?

Peter quickly scribbles down the original equation and calculates his way through it in his notepad. Then he does it again. Sure enough, there’s an error – it’s one hour, not ten. 

When Zoha and Flash open the floor for questions, Peter raises an unsteady hand. 

“Could you go back to slide, um,” he checks his notes, “seven? It’s just, I did the calculation and I think you made an error. Just a small – could happen to anyone, really,” he hurries to say, then explains where the team went wrong. 

From the thunderous look on Flash’s face, he probably shouldn’t have done that. 

“I, I didn’t mean to offend, really. I – sorry.”

“Don’t ever apologize for being the smartest one in the room,” Quentin says before either Flash or Zoha have a chance to speak. “Good catch, Peter.”

Shuri nods, then tells the team to rework their calculations and find her once they’ve updated their presentation. 

If looks could kill, Flash’s glare would spell Peter’s very premature demise, but he’s too distracted by the proud smile Quentin is giving him from across the room to care. 

*

“I could get used to this,” May says as she accepts the mug of freshly brewed coffee Peter hands her. “Too bad it’s your last day.”

Peter ignores how the truth in that statement makes his stomach drop. “All the more reason I gotta return next summer.”

He aimed for nonchalance, but is pretty sure he missed, cause May’s watching him over the rim of her glasses. He quickly grabs another slice of bread to pop into the toaster. 

“Will that be paid?”

“No, but it’s the next step to a position on the co-operative education –”

“…program, yada yada yada, I know your speech by now, Peter. Don’t you think letting them exploit you for cheap labor once in your life is enough?”

“It’s not – they’re not exploiting me, May! This internship program’s the opportunity of a lifetime and, besides, Mr. Barnes said he’ll write me a recommendation and I’ll speak to Shuri today, and if all goes well, I’ll have a spot for next year by the end of the day!”

The toaster pops behind him, but Peter doesn’t break eye contact with his aunt. 

He gets her point, he really does. Would have been hard to grow up in the house of a social worker and a probation officer and not be hyper-aware of the flawed system they live in. And he gets the irony that, thanks to Ben’s life insurance and child benefits and May’s promotion, he’s lucky enough to get to even consider taking an unpaid internship position. 

Being aware of all this doesn’t change reality, though. 

“Please, Aunt May. Stark Industries… It’s my dream.”

He sees the exact moment she gives in. Relieved, he finally turns towards his now-burnt toast. 

She and Ben have always been big on fostering Peter’s innate talents and abilities, have never forced him into anything he didn’t like but always encouraged him to try. That’s how he ended up on the gymnastics team, which is a great counterpoint to bending over worktables all day, and how he figured out that programming really isn’t his thing, no matter how much Ben hoped to be raising the next Mark Zuckerberg. 

That’s totally more Ned’s forte – though Peter’s glad Ben never mentioned the comparison in front of his best friend, or Ned would’ve talked his ear off about all the things he’d be doing differently. 

Peter wonders when the rest of his class will figure out there’s more to his adorable nerd of a best friend than _Star Wars_ references and the ability to track your phone when you’ve lost it. 

“Earth to Parker,” Shuri says, pulling Peter back into the moment. “Are you done?”

He looks down at the evaluation questionnaire on the StarkPad, quickly ticks one more box, then hands it over. A few swipes of her thumb later, Shuri locks the tablet and grins at him. 

“Congratulations, you’re free. It was a pleasure to have you.”

“Um, yeah, about that,” Peter begins, scrambling to his feet and following Shuri until she stops in the doorway leading to the hallway. “I was wondering, when’s the earliest you accept applications for engineering internships next summer?”

“Aw, have we grown on you?”

She sounds delighted, and Peter gives her a sheepish smile. 

“Well, officially, there’s a very brief window in December for returning interns and all unsolicited applications are immediately filtered out… but only if someone’s email address isn’t known to my inbox.” 

Peter feels his smile turn into a grin. 

Shuri winks at him. “Now, on to more important questions… are you joining us for the festivities?”

Of course he is. It’s a rite of passage at Stark Industries that Peter’s read much about: At the end of summer, the company throws a laid-back barbecue for all interns and anyone of their coworkers who can spare the time. There’ll be food and a last chance to network, and if Peter’s lucky, he’ll see Quentin again, too. 

He does, yet not in the way he expects. 

“Um… W-Why’re you wearing gym shorts?” Peter asks. His voice is about an octave higher than usual, but he’d like to see anyone with eyes keep their cool at the sight of Quentin Beck in a form-fitting soccer jersey and shin guards. 

“Some of us come together for a match or two after work whenever we can,” Quentin explains, and suddenly Peter spots several other people wearing similar outfits. “Last year was too hectic. You play?”

“Um… I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Your clothes are fine. Come, Flash, Zoha and the others are already warming up. You don’t want to be the only one left out, do you?”

So Peter follows Quentin and everyone else up several floors to… oh, an employee gym. With a soccer field. And cubicles for squash. 

“There’s also a sauna off the changing rooms, but I never have time,” Quentin says, before turning towards the other players who have gathered at the edge of the indoor pitch and raising his voice. “What do you say – employees versus interns?”

Peter wants to point out that’s quite unfair, considering the SI team is bound to be well-coordinated, but any objections are drowned out by the cheering of his colleagues. 

In the end, it’s not so bad. Peter finds that the coordination he’s been honing for gymnastics is applicable to soccer, and even though exact aim isn’t one of his talents, all he needs to do is pass the ball to Zoha, who failed to mention she’s been playing in a Muslim girls’ team for the better part of a decade. 

When each and every one of them is thoroughly exhausted and it’s been 5:5 for fifteen minutes, they call it a draw. 

“Well played,” Quentin says, and Peter needs a moment to realize he’s offering his hand cause he was too distracted by the way Quentin’s jersey is clinging to his torso. 

“You said something about a shower?” he blurts, but Quentin seems to be connecting it to both their states rather than any, um… straying thoughts on Peter’s part. 

He’s still nervous when he enters one of the many employee bathrooms spread across the company’s floors of the Tower (most featuring severe decontamination units, he’s told), but his worry becomes moot at the sight of individual shower stalls, all equipped with doors and locks. 

There’s a stack of towels, too, as well as shower gel and shampoo attached to the walls, which prompts the part of Peter’s brain that’s focusing on the future to daydream about the time when these showers will be part of his legit workplace. 

The other, bigger part of his brain is trying very hard not to think of Quentin Beck showering in the stall right across from him. 

It takes him way longer than usual to make himself presentable, and when he finally emerges, most of the others are already gone. 

One of the other co-op students – Bokeem, Peter thinks – catches his eye. 

“See you next summer?”

“Hopefully,” Peter says, and finds himself alone once Bokeem has placed his towel in the hamper on the way out. 

Or so he thinks. 

Someone curses and a moment later, Quentin unlocks the door to his stall. The reason for his annoyance seems to be the T-shirt he planned to change into, which somehow got soaked in the shower, leaving Quentin shirtless and scowling. 

He smiles, though, when he spots Peter still perched on the bench, about to tie his shoelaces. 

Peter can’t stop himself from tracking Quentin’s path towards a cupboard in the corner, which holds several stacks of SI T-shirts, can’t pull his eyes away from the rippling muscles in Quentin’s back as he puts one of them on. 

He doubts he was able to school his expression quick enough for the other man not to notice, and the mortification creeps up his neck and brings a blush to his cheeks. 

The last thing he expects is for Quentin to sit down next to him, eyes soft, with a genuine, “No reason to be embarrassed, Peter. I’m flattered, honestly.” 

Peter forces himself to maintain eye contact, regardless of how much he wants the earth to swallow him whole. 

“And if things were different… who knows?”

Quentin’s eyes flicker down his body, just for the briefest of moments, and Peter almost thinks he imagined it, but then he catches Quentin glancing at his lips, which draws Peter’s attention to Quentin’s and he’s never kissed anyone before, he never really wanted to but now it’s like –

A hand on his chest stops him mid-movement. 

Quentin’s eyes are sad when Peter meets them. “I’m sorry, Peter. You’re… it wouldn’t be right.”

“Wha… Why?”

Quentin gives him a flat look. 

“But…” Peter swallows. “I want this, I do, why can’t we just –”

“You’re sixteen, for one.”

“But –”

“Two, I’m your superior. I’ll still be your superior when you’re coming back next summer.”

“You’ll have been promoted by then,” Peter says, trying to shuffle closer to Quentin on the bench. “You won’t be dealing with interns anymore.”

That was definitely the right thing to say, cause Quentin stops his evasive maneuvers. 

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” he says. “But that’s all the more reason I gotta keep myself to a higher standard.” Quentin sighs, then squeezes Peter’s shoulder. “Take care.”

Later, Peter won’t know why he does it. Maybe it’s because of the hand he can feel splayed against his skin through a layer of fabric. Maybe it’s the obvious reluctance in Quentin’s features. Maybe it’s two weeks’ worth of wet dreams that propel Peter forward, closing the distance between them faster than Quentin can evade. 

For one panicked moment, Quentin is frozen against him. Then his lips press back against Peter’s, just a little, but it’s enough to make hope surge in his chest. 

It evaporates a moment later when Quentin’s uses the pressure to push him away. He does it gently, sure, and his eyes are soft, but it’s still a rejection. 

“I’m sorry,” Quentin says, rising to his feet. Peter has to force himself to look up. “For what it’s worth, I really am hoping to see you again next summer.” 

Quentin walks off, the door to the showers closing with an audible click in the silence he leaves behind.

Peter remains on the bench until his heart has stopped hammering against his chest.


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your enthusiasm about this after only one chapter! I'm so excited to share another installment with you ♥ 
> 
> ...and to finish this day on such a positive note. Happy reading and good night, y'all!

Peter sends off his application to Shuri before breakfast the next day.

Sleep has eluded him, but his body doesn’t seem to mind. Rather than drag him down, Quentin’s rejection seems to have ignited something in him. It’s like his system is oversaturated with energy, and the state persists well into the first few weeks of junior year. 

“Oh, is that Spanish?” Ned asks, dropping into the nearest seat and setting his lunch tray next to the one Peter has yet to touch. 

He’s too caught up in the article he’s reading to answer before Ned leans into his space to read off the papers in front of him. 

“Bidirectional communication through somatosensory integra… what?”

“It’s about bionic orthoses and prostheses,” Peter says. “Mr. Barnes wrote it in 2010. I wanted to start with his most recent publications but I was missing too much foundational knowledge, so I’m... you know. Catching up.”

“Peter, you don’t even know if they’ll take you back.”

Ned’s right, of course. The earliest he can expect his acceptance is February, but it’s not about that – he’s genuinely fascinated by Mr. Barnes’ field. 

Also, devouring all he can possibly find online about bionics is a great way to distract himself from rereading Stark Industries’ bylaws, cause no matter how often he does, it won’t make him age any faster.

Thing is, Quentin’s reluctance to return Peter’s kiss can’t be rooted in the employee handbook since, and Peter could quote this backwards if he had to, “company employees may date and develop friendships and relationships with other employees—both inside and outside of the workplace—as long as these relationships do not have a negative impact on their work or the work of others.”

According to Peter’s research, SI has only been able to maintain this lax set of rules due to a very engaged on-site counselor who does not report to anyone at the company except Ms. Potts, the CEO. Employees know where to go in case they experience harassment, and swift action is taken once allegations have been substantiated. 

Which leaves Peter’s age. Yet by the time school lets out for summer, he’ll be 17, above New York’s laws of consent, and nothing will be in the way of him… what? Seducing a leading engineer at Stark Industries who’s so far out of his league, he might as well be on another planet? 

It didn’t feel like that, though, when they interacted. Quentin always treated Peter like an equal. He listened. He explained. He laughed at Peter’s awkward jokes. 

There was something between them, and Peter can’t wait to –

“Hey, do you wanna come over later?” Ned interrupts. “I finally got the Y-Wing Starfighter. 1967 pieces, man.”

Peter agrees, but only since he knows that that many pieces won’t take two experienced LEGO handlers like Ned and himself too long.

As predicted, they’re finished way before Mr. Leeds would ever tell them to turn off the lights or their computers, and of course Ned only now remembers he’s been neglecting English homework for the better part of three days. 

“Do what you gotta do, man,” Peter says sagely, smiling at Ned’s exaggerated groan. 

He seizes the chance and goes back to Barnes’ 2010 paper. 

Ned blinks. “Didn’t you finish that during Physics?”

“Yeah, but, um… Some parts of it still don’t make any sense.”

“Have you –” 

“Yes. But no one on the internet explains this any better. I don’t get it, it was so easy when Mr. Barnes taught it to me when I could actually see the models and the circuitry, and… damn, I feel so dumb.”

“Hey, maybe you could ask him? Mr. Barnes?”

Peter snorts. “Yeah, I’ll just fire off a quick email, I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”

Ned considers for a moment. “Why not? He sounds like a good guy. Or an okay guy. Or a… a guy who’s not terrible.”

Loath as he is to admit it, Ned has a point. 

“I… I’ll think about it.”

“Think not, young padawan,” Ned says with a perfectly straight face. “Do.”

Peter smiles, even though the appropriated Yoda quote makes his chest sting. He resolves to follow Ned’s advice before the wave of grief has a chance to rise any further and hits _send_ once he’s double- and triple-checked his message for any errors or spelling mistakes. 

Mr. Barnes’ reply arrives two days later. 

*

Junior year passes in a blur after that, with only a handful of moments standing out. 

Peter’s so busy trying to wrap his brain around some of Mr. Barnes’ ideas and their practical applications that he even manages to forget all about Quentin Beck for several days at a stretch. Since yes, Mr. Barnes not only replied – he kept replying, over and over again, explaining whenever Peter had questions or simply giving him recommendations on where to start reading up on a particular subject. 

While Peter knows he can’t become an expert on any field of engineering while also going to school full-time, he vows to teach himself so much that Stark Industries has no choice but to accept him into the co-op program after his second internship. 

Which he actually got – Peter finds the official email from HR in his inbox on a cold February morning. 

Mr. Barnes’ way of congratulating him is a single note, “PS: Heard you’ll be back. Consider this summer reading”, followed by a long list of links to current publications as well as a few PDF manuscripts. 

“Can he do that?” Ned wonders, grabbing a pen from inside Peter’s locker. Must have left his at home again. “Just assign you stuff to do before you even have your first day?”

Yet Peter can’t contain his glee. “Who cares?”

Ned shakes his head, mumbling something about how grateful Peter should be that Ned made him take the SATs in December, otherwise he wouldn’t have time to complete the reading, and starts off towards his own locker.

May, however, is less thrilled. 

“You promised you’d help with the set-up,” she snaps after he tries to beg off the charity event she’s been organizing. “We’re counting on you. The battered women and men are counting on you.”

“I – not fair.”

“No, Peter, what’s not fair is you going back on your word the day of your commitment. That’s not the boy Ben and I raised.”

Invoking Ben is a low blow, but an effective one. May must really need his help, Peter thinks, and reluctantly trudges after his aunt towards her car. 

Her volunteering work is a new thing. After losing her husband and having to care for Peter all by herself, May sought comfort in a grief support group. There she met Clint, who introduced her to his best friend Natasha, founder of the Red Room Refuge, a regional charity that helps survivors of domestic abuse in and around New York. 

Every few months, they do fundraising drives, and this time Peter promised to lend a hand. He figured it would look good on college applications, on top of his stellar SAT and ACT scores, acing seven AP courses, his membership in the robotics club and list of accomplishments in gymnastics.

Obviously, that was before Mr. Barnes assigned him about a gazillion pages of dense material. 

Grumbling won’t help him hang paintings and drawings to be sold at the auction, though, which is his primary task. 

“Not a fan?” a young woman asks, dressed in a black turtleneck. She’s 19, maybe 20. Her bright red pants match the flowers decorating her ponytail. 

Only now does Peter notice that he’s frowning at the painting he finished leveling two minutes ago. 

“Oh, no – I mean, yes, I… Or, well, I don’t really know much about art, but they all look…” Peter darts around for an adjective that won’t make him sound like a total jerk, but the young woman laughs. 

“I’m messing with you. You don’t have to like them as long as you put them up.”

Peter relaxes, then remembers that he has a job to do. The woman watches him go through the by now familiar process of measuring the required distance from the floor to where the pegs need to go on the display wall panel. 

“You’re good at that.”

Peter glances at her as he hangs the next item, an intense pencil drawing, and offers an uneasy, “Um, thanks? It’s just math and physics, really…”

The woman – who introduces herself as MJ – turns out to have a great eye for displaying art as well as a complete lack of reservations about asking Peter to re-arrange panels. That’s when Peter notices the signature in the bottom left corner on one of the sketches. 

“Is – is that yours?”

MJ smirks. 

She’s an art student, she tells him as they finish up, and works part-time at the Red Room helpline in addition to donating her work whenever there’s a charity event on the horizon. When Peter mentions that he’s May’s nephew, MJ’s eyes light up. 

“The one with the Stark Internship?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Come with me,” she orders before walking off. 

Peter is too intrigued not to follow.

She stops next to a very tall, very muscular, very handsome blond man organizing the flyers and printouts covering a large table in a more appealing way. 

“Peter, this is Steve, one of our founding members and most recent hire of Stark Industries.”

Peter feels his eyes widen even before he shakes Steve’s hand. 

“Wow, that’s – I’m an intern, well, next summer, I will be an intern and…” Peter takes a deep breath. “Sorry. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“Likewise,” Steve says, not in the least affronted by Peter’s case of word-vomit. “Which department?”

“Engineering.”

Steve gives him a wry smile as he points to himself. “Marketing.” 

If the guy thinks that’s gonna deter Peter from asking him about a million questions, he’s mistaken. Fortunately, Steve is a friendly guy and indulges him, sharing a few insights into company culture Peter has yet to become privy to.

“Everyone’s wary of how things will settle,” Steve admits near the end of the event. “Half the staff think Mr. Stark’s decision to pull out of the weapons industry will ruin the company. The other half thinks it’s gonna be salvation.”

Peter chances a glance at Steve as he tails him out to where they’re allowed to deposit their garbage. “Which half are you in?”

“Neither.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything else until they’ve reached the dumpster out back and got rid of their bags. 

“I think it’s a chance. A chance to build something better.”

“That’s why you applied there?”

Steve shakes his head. “Nah, was offered the job. A friend recommended me.”

“Do I know them?”

“Tell you what,” Steve says, leading the way back into the building, “why don’t you drop by my office once you’re back and I’ll see about introducing you.” 

*

Peter isn’t sure what to expect when he steps off the elevator on the floor that houses the PR department. 

He has twenty minutes to kill before he’s due to report for eight weeks of intense work and would rather make a fool of himself looking for Steve than risk running into Quentin on his first morning back. 

When he knocks on the door a helpful assistant points him to, the last voice he expects to hear is that of his new vice department head. 

“Come in, leave your soul at the door!”

It’s followed by an exasperated “Shuri!” from Steve, and Peter catches the tail-end of a playful shove on Shuri’s part that has no effect on Steve whatsoever. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in my department?” Shuri asks when she realizes who entered. 

“I still have twenty minutes,” Peter says, “and Steve said I should come by when I – but I’ll leave you to it, didn’t wanna interrupt, sorry.”

“All you’re interrupting is her proving why she’s in engineering and I’m in PR.”

“You’re supposed to help us _sell_ our products, Rogers –”

“And I am.”

“You’re setting them up as accessories; they’re essentials.”

“For whom?”

“Several of our target demographics,” Shuri says, with an air of ‘duh’. 

“People can survive without a five-hundred-dollar StarkWatch.”

“A water-proof StarkWatch with unprecedented battery life as well as holographic capabilities –”

“All of which are nowhere near the sophistication of some of the prototypes I’ve seen, Shuri, and you know it. I’m not telling people they’re inadequate if they don’t have the scraps you market to consumers.”

Peter has the distinct urge to hide cause the anger in Steve’s tone is mounting, but then Shuri huffs and throws up her arms. 

“Nobody can say I didn’t try,” she tells Peter, winks, then steps past him. “Don’t be late,” she calls over her shoulder.

Confused, Peter turns to Steve, who doesn’t look nearly as put-out as he expected. Peter is getting the impression that her opposition to Steve’s advertising plans is more for show than anything else. 

“Welcome to Marketing,” Steve says after a beat, and walks over to the small refreshment stand in a corner of his office. “Diet coke?”

Peter laughs, much to Steve’s confusion, so he has to explain about his junior internship last year in Human Resources and the weird correlation between diet coke consumption and the PR department. 

Only Steve isn’t amused. “Because we know how bad excess amounts of sugar are for you.”

“Um…”

“Sorry. Didn’t invite you here to lecture you.” Steve forces a smile. “Excited about your first day?”

“Oh yeah,” Peter says, and he has to restrain himself to avoid tripping over his words in his enthusiasm. “I really enjoyed the two weeks last summer and can’t believe I get to be here for eight weeks! I mean, I know I won’t spend every day with Mr. Barnes, but he assured me he…”

Peter trails off when he realizes Steve actually rolled his eyes at the mention of Barnes’ name.

“Um… not a fan?”

Steve hesitates, apparently debating whether or not to divulge any more information than he already has, but he must figure that Peter is bound to hear about whatever’s going on between them sooner or later. The SI rumor mill is legendary, after all. 

“Of him as an engineer? Yes, absolutely. As a person?” Steve heaves a sigh. “He could do so much good, you know? His story could inspire hundreds of amputees, if not thousands, but no, he’s gotta be an anti-social jerk who won’t do a single interview. Not even online, he wouldn’t even have to leave the office!”

“Um… I can, uh, talk to him, if you want?” Peter offers, albeit hesitantly.

“That’s kind of you, Peter,” Steve says, “but I wouldn’t want you to get on his bad side for my sake. I’ll find ways to work around it, I always have.”

“I thought you said you only started here in January?” 

Steve visibly perks up at the proof that Peter listened during their conversation at the Red Room and gives him an approving look. 

“Oh, yeah, but before that I did a six-month internship at Wakanda Inc.”

“Woah.”

Peter knows he’s gaping, but he can’t help it. Wakanda Inc. is one of the world’s leading tech companies. Their portfolio differs enough from that of Stark Industries to keep them from being outright rivals, but… Well, rumor has it that their CEO, T’Challa, is considering branching out into telecommunications as well. 

“Is it –”

“As great as everyone says it is?” Steve finishes. “Yeah.”

“Then…” Peter bites his lip but again, Steve seems to know exactly what he’s getting at. 

“Why didn’t I take a job with them? Well, the City’s home. Six months were hard enough. I wanted to get back, and when Shuri said this position freed up…”

“Brooklyn?” Peter guesses, prompting a smirk. 

“How’d you figure that, Queens?”

There’s a soft _ping_ from Steve’s desk, then, like an email notification, and Peter watches Steve pick up a large StarkPad. The man pauses once he’s unlocked the screen, glances at Peter, then at… 

The clock on the wall. 

“Shit,” Peter curses, almost out the door before he remembers his manners, but Steve is waving him off, so he continues on his quest to make it down twenty-something floors within three minutes. 

He would have made it, too, if it weren’t for Quentin Beck walking in the opposite direction. 

His smile upon spotting Peter makes his steps falter.  
“Welcome back,” Quentin say while Peter tries to catch his breath in the most graceful way possible. 

“Hi,” he manages. “Sorry, I… How are you?”

_Smooth, Parker._

“I’m doing very well, thank you,” Quentin replies, still smiling. “About to embark on another Master’s degree, further my skills…”

Peter manages to bite down on his embarrassing first impulse, which would have involved quite a lot of flailing, and offers a cool, “Oh, yeah? Which specialty?”

Judging by the mirth in Quentin’s eyes, he’s not fooled in the slightest by Peter’s act. 

“Applied neurotechnology.”

“Wow, that’s…” Peter swallows. “Impressive. I’ve been reading up on BCIs and neuro-rehabilitation, but more on the mechanical side of it, not the… Yeah.”

“It’s a fascinating field. Sheer endless applications. The frontiers I’ll be able to transcend…” 

The glint of passion in Quentin’s eyes is captivating, Peter finds, and for a moment, they’re just looking at each other. 

Then Quentin tilts his head. “Why were you running?”

“I – meeting with Shuri, I’m, shit, I’m late, I gotta –”

“Oh, you don’t want to keep her waiting, Peter,” Quentin says with a wink. “Better hurry.”

“Yeah, um, I – thanks,” he stammers, but Quentin has turned away, so he forces himself to stop talking and start running again. 

If his heart was already beating way too fast before then, no one needs to know. 

*

Peter can see Ned’s still in the middle of new code, but if he puts off telling him any longer, Ned’s really going to be upset. 

“Um, Ned?”

As expected, his best friend doesn’t look up from his laptop. 

“About this weekend...”

Now that gets Ned’s attention. He takes one look at Peter’s apologetic expression and groans. 

“No, Peter, don’t do this to me! We’ve been waiting for this for an entire year! It’s the Death Star! 4016 pieces!”

“I know, man, I know,” Peter says, “but it’s still gonna be there next weekend, right?”

“What could possibly be more important than the next phase of our epic journey?”

“Well...” Peter feels himself blush, but he pushes on. “There’s this guy. At work. I really like him, and I think he likes me too, but he won’t admit it so I’ve got this plan, see, a plan to make him admit it, but I can only do it this weekend and, please, don’t be mad?”

Ned sits back and regards him with a skeptical look. “A plan.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, while breathing a mental sigh of relief. He’s piqued Ned’s interest, that’s a great start. “So, this guy, I sorta kissed him last year? And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but he turned me down and I was... well. But anyway –“

“Hold on – he turned you down?”

“Yeah, because I was sixteen and not of age –”

“He said that?”

“Erm,” Peter hesitates. “Not in so many words.... and he was acting completely professional when I got back two weeks ago, but then he saw me talking to Steve, you know, the guy from the Red Room? And after that, he was acting a little... off?”

“Steve?”

“No, Quen...tus,” Peter says, remembering at the last second that if Ned were to look up Quentin and Stark Industries, he’d get a match for Quentin Beck, 33. Peter can’t see that ending well. Last year, Ned was shocked when his 19-year-old cousin started dating a guy who was five years older than her.

“Quentus. The guy you kissed. Who turned you down.”

“He’s jealous!”

“You sure it’s because of you? You did say this Steve’s a hunk.”

“What? No, I mean...” Peter considers, then quickly shakes his head. There’d be no reason for Quentin’s eyes to constantly follow _him_ if he were in fact interested in Steve.

“Just checking. You don’t have the best track record when it comes to these things.”

Peter winces at the memory. In retrospect, he sees where he went wrong with Jason, but he’s matured since then and besides, he doubts Quentin would result to socking him in the jaw if he tried to kiss him again. 

“Well?” Ned prompts, effectively stopping Peter’s trip down memory lane. 

Right. The plan. 

“So, there’s these industry conventions, right? Like trade shows, and there’s one this weekend and I asked Steve whether I could come, while Quentus was watching, obviously, and Steve said yeah sure, as long as I clear it with my supervisor, Shuri, who actually thought it’s gonna be a great learning experience –“

“And how does this tie in with your crush on this Quentus dude?”

“I’m getting to that, okay?” Peter shifts on his spot on the bed to get more comfortable. “Anyway, so on Monday I’m asking Shuri and I can see him nearby, and he pretended to be reading something on his StarkPad, so I make a point of talking about Steve and he goes all still, like, obviously listening. Then, two days later –“

“Today,” Ned supplies. 

“Yeah, today I hear from Mr. Barnes that Drone Daddy – um, I mean William – had to cancel last minute and now Quentus is filling in for him at the trade show.”

“Hm... You make a compelling case.”

“Right? Now all I gotta do on Saturday is spend most my time with Steve, then confront Quentus about his jealousy and... then he’ll kiss me. Easy.”

“Easy.”

Peter nods.

“What if he doesn’t kiss you?”

“Then I’ll kiss him.”

“But he turned you down.”

“It’s gonna work, Ned. Come on!”

Ned still seems skeptical, but Peter feels certain he’s right on the money.

*

He really should have given his friend more credit. 

It’s not that his plan fails, per se... well, okay, it totally does. 

Peter makes it through an entire morning of assisting with displays and restocking informational brochures without paying too much attention to Quentin, who talks about William’s current generation of drones like they’re his own children. Or nephews, at least. 

But then a very important looking lady in an all-white suit arrives and greets Quentin with kisses on each cheek. 

There’s no time to school his features, so when Quentin’s eyes glance towards him, they catch what’s bound to be very obvious pining on Peter’s part. 

Any hope of faking interest in Steve is moot, after that. 

Unfortunately, there’s too much to do for him to spend even five percent of his attention on coming up with a viable plan B, meaning he’s back to square one when they’re packing up after twelve hours on site. 

Or so he thought.

“You wanna go for a drink?” Quentin asks after Shuri and Steve have dropped them off at the nearest subway station while they’re taking the company van and all materials back to Stark Industries. 

Peter is so caught off guard that the first thing out of his mouth is, “I’m not 21 yet.”

Quentin gives him an indulgent smile and leads the way. 

The extent of what’s happening doesn’t hit Peter until he’s sitting on a bar stool next to Quentin Beck, whose fingers are stroking the neck of his beer bottle in a rather distracting manner while he’s watching Peter drink lemonade through a straw. 

“So,” Peter says, once he trusts his voice again, “was today – I mean, compared to other trade shows, was it...?” 

“About average, I’d say. But not bad for New York. If you really want to start sweating, you’ll have to wait until October, for FOE in Chicago.”

“Oh...” 

Peter knows he should have something more eloquent to say, but the way Quentin’s voice curled around ‘sweating’ seems to have disabled all higher brain functions. 

_Damn it, Parker, get it together._

“Do you, um,” he starts, forcing himself to maintain eye contact, “do you have any feedback? Shuri said she’d give it to me on Monday, but, um, since you’re here now, you could...”

“Review your performance?” Quentin’s voice is dripping with innuendo. 

Peter ducks his head. Even the tips of his ears are burning. 

“I’d say you handled yourself very well.”

Peter perks up at that. Quentin’s smiling again, and takes a leisurely drink from his beer. Peter can’t keep his eyes from glancing at where Quentin’s lips meet the glass before he’s distracted by the movement of his throat. 

“You’re a promising young man, Peter.” 

“Th-thank you,” he manages, and reaches for his drink again. 

“I’m glad you got the internship. It was a tough choice, but I believe Shuri made the right one.”

The praise makes Peter’s chest swell, but he has no idea what to say in response, so he just smiles and hopes Quentin will understand. 

“So,” Quentin continues after a moment, leaning closer, “what’s on the cards for tomorrow?”

“I’ve, uh, got some reading to do.”

“Oh yeah? What topic?”

There’s genuine interest in Quentin’s tone, which makes Peter’s pulse flutter and gives him the courage to explain which additional material Mr. Barnes has pointed him towards. He intended to keep it brief, but Quentin keeps asking for details, keeps listening, and after a while, Peter finds himself relaxing more and more into the situation.

The conversation segues into applied neuroscience without either of them actively steering it towards it, and then Peter’s the one asking the question.

He always thought he could listen to Quentin talk for hours, but he never dared imagine he’d get the chance. Least of all in a bar where the dim lighting does awesome things to Quentin’s already incredible bone structure. 

“Seriously, kid, how many lemonades have you had?”

Peter blinks. 

Quentin’s regarding him with a fond look that does weird things to Peter’s insides. “I said we should probably go. It’s getting late.”

A glance at the clock tells him it’s past eleven. Peter shifts to reach for his wallet, but Quentin holds up a hand. 

“Let me. I’ve been talking your ear off for the better part of two hours. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thank you, but, uh… I really enjoyed it.” Peter gathers his courage. “We, um, we should do this again. Soon. Or… whenever. I’m sure you’re busy and – yeah, I’ll be right back.”

Mortified by his own failed display of nonchalance, he points towards the bathrooms and is out of his chair before Quentin has a chance to reply. 

After washing his hands, Peter checks his reflection in the mirror. The Stark Industries T-shirt is a little tight around the chest, but he figures that’s an advantage, yet his hair is a mess after a full day of work and air-conditioned rooms. He tries to make it better with a bit of water from the sink and thinks he succeeds, but if he fuzzes for much longer Quentin’s probably gonna think he was eaten by the toilet or something.

He finds the man leaning against the wall outside the restrooms. His eyes light up when they see Peter is back, and Peter is drawn towards him like he’s the center of gravity.

“Yes,” Quentin says, out of the blue. At Peter’s quizzical look, he adds, “We should do this again. I enjoyed myself, too.”

“Awesome! I mean, um…” Peter grasps for anything that might make his response even slightly less embarrassing, but judging by Quentin’s fond expression, it’s not actually that bad. So Peter steps closer and says, softer this time, “That’s awesome.”

He now has to tilt his head a little to be able to meet Quentin’s gaze, which is probably why it takes him a moment to realize Quentin’s eyes have dropped to his lips.

It’s the faintest of movements, but it’s enough. 

Peter closes the distance, rises to the balls of his feet and closes his eyes as he brushes his lips against Quentin’s. It’s tentative, like a question.

When he pulls back, he immediately loses himself in the warmth of Quentin’s eyes.

“You’ve gotta be sure, Peter,” Quentin whispers. 

This close, Peter can inhale the smell of Quentin’s aftershave. 

“I wanna kiss you, too, Peter, I do, but you’ve got to be sure.”

“I am! I thought you said I’m the smartest person in the room.”

“Calculating the durability of adhesives requires a different kind of intelligence than relationships.”

Peter’s pulse stutters, but his voice is firm when he says, “I can learn.”

Quentin’s eyes flicker across his face for what feels like the span of a lifetime while Peter holds his breath. Then something settles. 

Suddenly, he feels Quentin’s hands on him, one cradling his jaw, the other holding onto his hip. When Quentin’s lips press against his, Peter swears he feels a jolt go through his entire body. 

He’s had his fair share of kisses (well, during spin-the-bottle), but none have ever made him feel like this – hyperaware of even the smallest movement, Quentin’s breath hot against his skin, every cell in his body alight with life and something that leaves him breathless once it’s over. 

And there wasn’t even any tongue.

“You have no idea,” Quentin whispers into the space between them, “how long I’ve been thinking about doing this.”

“Oh?”

Quentin’s reply is a smile, followed by a feather-light kiss against the corner of Peter’s mouth. He traces the entire line of Peter’s jaw like that, hints of stubble scraping across skin, and Peter releases a shaky breath. He feels Quentin’s thumb caressing his throat. 

“What else,” he tries, “What else have you…”  
“Full sentences, Peter,” Quentin whispers against his throat, and _ngh_, not fair. How is he supposed to form a coherent thought, let alone perfect syntax? 

“What else have you been thinking about?”

Quentin pulls back at that, eyes soft, pupils dilated. 

_I did that,_ Peter thinks, and the realization sends another jolt of pleasure down his spine. It also makes him keenly aware of how hard he already is inside his pants. 

He must have shifted a little, cause Quentin’s gaze drops to his crotch. 

When Quentin’s eyes return to Peter’s, they’ve darkened considerably. 

“Oh, I’ll show you, babe,” he says, then moves in for another kiss. 

Too bad that’s when another patron walks past them to get to the bathroom. 

Quentin doesn’t step away, however. He brings a hand up to Peter’s face and caresses his cheek. Peter never knew one simple touch could make him feel so… so cherished.

“How about we start with dinner?” Quentin asks. 

Peter’s “Yes” is swallowed by another kiss.


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, here is a new chapter! Enjoy =)

“I’m thinking Thai for – where’re you going?”

Peter skids to a halt on his way to the door. Aunt May has narrowed her eyes, probably because he’s wearing his only shirt (a very nice grey-blue). 

“Ned’s. Why?”

“Wearing that?”

Peter shrugs. “I’m trying a new look. Wanted to see if I’m comfortable in it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I really need to go, May. Ned’s got the bootlegged version of the new _Star Wars_ game and it’s supposed to take three hours to even get through the intro, so we –”

As expected, May’s attention started to fade the moment he said ‘Star Wars’ and she waves him off with a huff. 

“But don’t forget dinner!” she calls after him. 

“I won’t!” Peter promises and feels only marginally bad for lying to her. 

Ned’s been briefed about his cover story, so even if May decides to call the Leeds house, it won’t fall apart, and Peter has the entire evening at his disposal for his date with Quentin. 

His _date with Quentin._

The thought makes him smile so widely that people on the subway actually move away from him, but he doesn’t care. 

Quentin texted him directions, yet without the man waiting outside the restaurant he chose, Peter would have walked right past it. As is, he’s greeted with a hand on his cheek and a soft kiss.

“Are you hungry?” Quentin asks in that ambiguous tone of his that prompts a distinct urge to blush. Peter simply nods and lets Quentin lead him into a narrow alley with a hand on his lower back. 

The place, when they enter, is neat and packed with a diverse crowd united by their distinct air of ‘Native New Yorker’. Peter thinks they fit in rather well – he in jeans and the shirt that Quentin gave an approving once-over outside; Quentin in slacks and a grey henley that brings out his eyes. 

“I couldn’t get a last-minute reservation at the sushi bar,” Quentin says after he pulled out Peter’s chair somewhere in the back. “But I wouldn’t want to take you anywhere else. Their sushi’s the best in all of New York.”

“How’d you even find it?”

“A friend of mine from Japan recommended it.” The memory brings a fond look to Quentin’s features, and he pauses for a moment. “I did my first PhD in Tokyo.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, it was… I needed to get away. Back home, everything reminded me of her, you know?”

Peter contends himself with a nod, even though he’d love to ask more questions, but the topic clearly isn’t the lightest so he quizzes Quentin about sushi instead. 

Quentin’s gotta be a great teacher if tonight’s experience is anything to go by, Peter thinks. He orders for them, explains all the differences between maki and temaki, nigiri and nori, and even delves a bit into the history of the food at Peter’s assurance that yeah, he’s really asking. 

“No use posing questions that you don’t want answered, after all,” Quentin explains. “You don’t need to pretend for my sake.”

“I’m not,” Peter says easily, cause it’s true. 

Quentin makes even the most trivial detail seem fascinating and he’s full of stories from his time in Japan and all the faux-pas he committed as an ignorant American in a foreign culture. 

Peter’s just glad he’s used to eating with chopsticks thanks to years of May’s botched attempts at cooking, so he can give Quentin his full attention.

That’s why he completely misses when their plates are cleared and a small bowl of soup appears in front of him. 

“Miso soup,” Quentin explains at his look. “Most people here eat it as an appetizer, but it’s in fact eaten after the meal. To help digestion.”

“Yours is red?”

“Yeah, I prefer it, but I wasn’t sure you’d enjoy it as well. Wanna taste?”

At Peter’s nod, Quentin scoops up a bit of soup and ingredients, then holds it out for Peter to try. He’s about to reach out when he notices Quentin’s leaned forward, and in a split-second decision that he’ll be proud of for the rest of the night, Peter eats the soup right off the offered spoon instead without breaking eye contact. 

“Remind me to never share lunch in the cafeteria with you,” Quentin says after a beat. “I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

Heat flares in Peter’s chest, but he refuses to blush. If he did that any time Quentin paid him a compliment, by the look of things, it might become permanent. 

“Speaking of work,” Quentin continues with a sigh and a long-suffering expression, “I guess we should talk about how this will affect your internship.”

“Uh, will it?”

Quentin gives him a teasing look. “How about you rewind our conversation a bit, babe.”

As if for emphasis, Quentin reaches across the table and places his hand on Peter’s. 

“Oh, um, well… No shared meals, then. At least in public? And Shuri decides where I work, so you can’t be seen favoring me that way. But, uh, I don’t think we’ll get in trouble with the bylaws anyway.”

At Quentin’s raised eyebrow, Peter quotes the passage he has still memorized by heart and is rewarded with a laugh and Quentin’s fingers moving on to stroking his wrist. 

“What did I do to deserve you, babe?” he murmurs, probably more to himself than to Peter. 

His throat is too tight for words, so Peter let’s his expression speak for him. 

*

On Monday, Peter’s eyes stray to Quentin when he’s nearby more than once, but overall, he’s more focused on work, more driven, more engaged than ever before. 

Even Mr. Barnes comments upon it. 

“Gimme the name of your dealer, kid,” he says in parting, “I need some of the good stuff you’re on.”

Peter just flashes him another smile and returns to debugging the leg prosthesis like he said he’d do so Mr. Barnes can make it to his physio appointment. 

On Friday, a long-suffering Shuri tells him to report to Quentin because he needs another pair of hands and several employees have called in ‘sick’ (which warrants quotes since it’s the first day of a big festival somewhere upstate and Shuri is not hiding her suspicions as to this sudden onset of food poisoning among her staff). 

Peter’s grateful, though, because it means he finally gets to visit Quentin’s lab. 

He eventually finds it in a very far corner of the twenty-seventh floor, beyond what looks like several rooms used for storage and one housing a 3D-printer that’s seen better days. 

There’s no sign or name plate anywhere and yeah, Peter doesn’t expect a fancy office cause Quentin has one on the main floors of R&D, but… this space does seem a little bare.

The windows are hidden behind tall whiteboards, all filled with pigments of color that probably used to be writing, once upon a time. The metal tables show signs of serious neglect, with layers of dust tempting Peter to draw a smiley – or maybe pi – but it’s when he rounds an empty shelf that it gets really creepy. 

Long sheets of plastic have been put up to create a separate space within the room. The only source of light, beyond the small stripe left between the top of the whiteboards and the windows, comes from within. 

Peter approaches slowly. He can’t quite make out what’s inside. 

He pushes a sheet of plastic aside and enters with cautious steps. 

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that awaits him. 

On top of a gurney lies a body, a _dead_ body, naked and female and cut open from sternum to navel, a tray of bloodied surgical instruments next to it.

Peter jerks back with a gasp and collides with – 

Something that’s way too firm to be a sheet of plastic.

Suddenly, the room around him starts to vanish. Invisible bugs seem to consume the body as well as the table, the instruments, even the lamp hanging from the ceiling. 

What’s left is nothing more terrifying than a vast empty office space. The thing Peter collided with is one of several… pillars? Sleek, thin pillars dotted with holes, but he can’t make out what’s inside in the low –

The sound of footsteps has him whip around. 

It’s Quentin, a rueful expression on his face and a tablet in his hand. 

“I only just heard you coming,” he says, “otherwise I would have greeted you at the door.” 

“Wha– What was that?” 

“My current project.”

Peter’s incomprehension must be evident since Quentin immediately explains how he’s developing training software for Stark Medical, intended to compensate for the severe lack of real bodies available for hands-on autopsy lessons.

It’s mind-blowing, Peter finds, and says as much. 

Quentin’s answering smile, wide and proud, drops a little when he asks about Peter’s – embarrassingly limited – experience with holography.

“I hope you don’t have weekend plans,” Quentin says with a sigh. “Because you have some reading to do.”

For a second, Peter thinks about asking why, yet quickly dismisses it. Even if the regular employees return on Monday, Tuesday at the latest, he gets a one-on-one lecture from Quentin Beck about his latest breakthroughs in holography technology. And if that weren’t awesome enough, he also has official permission to pick Quentin’s brain whenever he encounters something beyond his immediate comprehension. 

Things only get better when Quentin calls him late Saturday evening after one particularly complex query since “this way is much more pleasant, babe.”

To Peter’s – and let’s face it, probably also Quentin’s – surprise, he takes to holography like an electron to a 10.2eV photon. 

So much so, in fact, that Quentin decides to raise the issue with Shuri, who consults her StarkPad. 

“Hm… Mr. Manbun’s next project isn’t due for weeks,” she says, “and Dr. Banner’s expecting your presentation in ten days. Guess you win the intern, Mysterio,” she concludes with a grin and leaves them to their own devices. 

Peter’s mind is repeating ‘Dr. Banner’ and ‘expecting your presentation’ on an endless loop until Quentin touches his arm. 

“You okay, babe?”

“Dr. Banner!” Peter blurts, then decides _fuck it_, Quentin’s dating him irrespective of his academic crushes. “The inventor of H.U.L.K. surgical glue – the head of Stark Medical! Expecting your presentation – that I get to help with –”

“Breathe,” Quentin tells him with an indulgent smile. “He’s just a guy. A brilliant, hard-working guy, granted. But you don’t need to feel small here, Peter. You’re talented. You could be where he is someday.”

“You… you really think so?”

The sincerity in Quentin’s expression takes his breath away. 

“Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked Shuri to switch you to my team. No favoring, I meant it.”

“Thank you,” Peter whispers. 

“Wait till after I make you stay till midnight for five days in a row, then we’ll see if you’re still grateful.”

“You could keep me even longer,” is out of Peter’s mouth before he can apply his brain-to-mouth filter to it, but fortunately, none of their colleagues is within earshot.

When Peter looks at Quentin again, the mirth in his eyes has dimmed and he’s arching a brow. 

Peter ducks his head in lieu of a verbal apology, and two heartbeats later Quentin’s more relaxed again. 

Maybe keeping work and dating separate is harder than Peter thought?

*

It’s a lot easier when there’s another employee in the room, Peter discovers. 

Quentin wasn’t kidding when he hinted at some late nights. Of the nine days leading up to their 2pm appointment with Stark Medical, Peter only gets out of the Tower before midnight once. 

At least he’s in the same boat with Ayse, one of the second-year co-op students with a penchant for holography and his constant companion once she has recovered from the “severest case of food-poisoning” she has ever experienced. Peter pointedly ignores the fading festival stamp on her wrist and the signs of a prolonged hangover. 

Their timeframe is extremely tight for what Quentin has planned, but under his expert guidance, they actually manage to finish all the prototypes with enough time left to do a practice run after setting up in the laboratory-turned-meeting-room. 

“Nervous?” Quentin asks them at two minutes to two. 

Peter exchanges a glance with Ayse.

“Don’t be. Remember your cues, stay on track, we’ll be fine.”

Before Peter knows it, they’ve reset and Quentin is shaking hands with Dr. Banner himself. Underneath his lab coat and general timid air, he’s in well-worn cotton pants and an equally battered button-down. Compared to him, Dr. Cho looks like a model in her pencil skirt and no-nonsense attitude. 

Both Ayse and Peter get polite nods, then Dr. Banner’s eyes slip past them to where they have set up the seven different scenarios Quentin has designed. 

The most basic ones feature only a holographic body along with the special instruments that are integrated into the technology to ensure the projected organs respond as authentically as possible. The models grow in scope and sophistication, with the sixth being a fortunately less creepy version of what Peter stumbled upon when he first entered Quentin’s lab. 

By default, the bodies have nondescript faces, but the instructor can calibrate them as needed. Peter has seen the holograms transmorph so often in the past ten days that the novelty has worn off a little, yet Dr. Banner and his colleague are transfixed. 

“The response time is better than anything we hoped for,” Banner says. “That’s – that’s very good, Mr. Beck.”

“Thank you, Dr. Banner,” Quentin says, “but I couldn’t have managed without Ayse and Peter on my team. Three minds definitely think better than one.”

“But what’s the last one?” Dr. Cho asks. “These were all we discussed.”

“Oh, yes.” 

Peter doesn’t need to see Quentin’s face to know he’s smiling. 

A subtle flick of Quentin’s hand is their cue to start prototype number seven, and once it has fully materialized, the doctors’ awe is palpable. 

This time, the three-dimensional hologram doesn’t show a corpse, ready to be dissected by aspiring medical students – rather a living patient, hooked to machines, the lower right side of the stomach open.

“Thanks to my brilliant team, I was able to move ahead to the next stage of the project. It’s still limited, but everything is set up for an appendectomy. Dr. Cho? Fancy giving it a try?”

The woman takes a few tentative steps towards the operating table. “It looks so real.”

Dr. Banner nods at her to go ahead, so she picks up a scalpel. 

In the minutes that follow, the reasons why Peter never considered medicine as a profession come back to him with a vengeance. 

Then there are questions and recalibrations, more questions and an order to pack everything up and take it back to the lab while Quentin stays to talk with Dr. Banner and Dr. Cho. 

Yet on their way out the door, Dr. Cho calls them back. 

“Ayse was it, right? And Peter?” 

Their ensuing small talk catches Dr. Banner’s attention, who drifts over as Ayse wraps up explaining how she’s in her second year as a co-op student, about to start her third year at NYU.

“And what about you, Mr…?” 

“Parker, sir,” he says immediately. “Peter Parker. Uh, I’m about to start my, um, senior year of high school?” He’d be lying if he said the way Dr. Banner and Dr. Cho’s eyebrows rise wasn’t flattering. “And I’ll be applying for a co-op position as well.”

“When you do,” Dr. Cho says, “don’t forget to mention your involvement in this. Bruce and I will be happy to confirm you’d be a great fit for Stark Industries.”

“Wow, th-thank you so much, I’m…”

Quentin saves him from any more flailing at that point, and Peter could have kissed him if they weren’t in public. From the knowing look Quentin shoots him once he’s returned Dr. Banner and Dr. Cho’s attention to the seventh prototype, however, he’s fully aware of Peter’s gratitude. 

Ayse calls it a day as soon as they’ve stowed away all equipment and backed up the data they collected, but Peter can’t bring himself to leave without seeing Quentin again. He has a lot riding on this presentation – if Stark Medical decides to go ahead and patent it, he’ll be playing on an entirely different level from then on. If not, it’s back to the drawing board.

He spots Quentin first. His expression is content, bordering on gleeful, and Peter is off his chair in a heartbeat.  
“They gave the green light?”

“You stayed.” Quentin’s smile widens. “And of course they did; the prototypes were flawless.”

“Congratulations.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Quentin says, voice soft as he steps into Peter’s personal space and places his hands on his sides. “How about we celebrate?”

After ten days of very limited contact, Peter is too distracted by how close Quentin is to do more than nod. Amused, Quentin leans in and brushes his lips against Peter’s, then pulls back, a conflicted look on his eyes. 

“I… I wanna suggest something, but it might be too forward. How do you feel about getting take-out, and then having dinner at my place?”

_My place._

Suddenly, Peter’s pulse spikes. Does this mean…. Yeah, of course, it has to, their project is over and now they’re free and May’s grown used him returning late so he won’t even need an excuse… 

“Peter? We don’t have to, I’m perfectly fine with just –”

“No, I… I’d love to have dinner at your place,” Peter says, breathless for some reason. 

Quentin’s smile is radiant as he pulls Peter along by his belt loops. “Then let’s go, babe.”

*

They take a cab to ‘Curry Hill’, several blocks in Murray Hill that have a disproportionate number of Indian restaurants, then walk along 36th street until they reach a tall, modern-looking apartment building. 

Peter’s more hungry than nervous right now, which is probably a good thing since he’s carrying their food up three flights of stairs and the last thing he wants is to ruin the night by spilling palak paneer and chicken masala all over the neat carpet. 

Maybe sensing his concerns, once they’ve entered his apartment, Quentin takes the bag off his hands with a quick kiss on his cheek. “I’ll get us some plates. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in the living room, babe?”

The first thing Peter notices about the space are the pictures. The entire wall leading to the living room is covered with artfully arranged frames, showing Quentin in various locations and with various important-looking people. Peter lingers over one showing him shaking hands with Tony Stark, both smiling in the camera. 

Next to the photos: Quentin’s degrees and certificates as well as a number of framed publications. Peter gravitates towards the glass display case, holding what he recognizes as mechanical parts of several of Quentin’s past projects, some more successful than others. 

What pulls him up short, however, is the ceiling. 

Considering they’re on the third of seven or eight floors, Peter would have expected a flat surface made out of concrete or wood or something. Yet what he sees defies explanation: a window, showing diaphanous clouds and a blue sky as well as – even more unexplainably – sunlit trees. 

“Impressive, isn’t it?” comes Quentin’s voice from behind him. 

“Wha– How?”

Quentin grins. “It’s called [Revelation SkyCeiling](https://www.core77.com/posts/27305/Skylights-for-Everyone-Productivity-Boosting-Optical-Illusions-for-the-Office-and-Beyond). Fluorescent lighting system with an acrylic tile that holds the photographic reproduction of the sky.”

Discussing the other two layers and how they work together to create the illusion carries them all the way through dinner and into taking care of the dishes. Quentin is drinking wine but insisted Peter stick to lemonade or soda. He chose water just to spite him but wasn’t able to keep up his petulant act for more than a minute, which was when Quentin returned from the kitchen with a glass of lemonade. And a straw. 

Peter thinks he still might have some paneer stuck in his windpipe from laughing so hard. 

They end up kissing with Quentin leaning against the dishwasher, slow and languid yet with an electric undercurrent that has Peter’s breath catch. 

Quentin doesn’t make a move, though. His hands remain firmly above Peter’s waist.

_Maybe,_ Peter thinks, _maybe the ball’s in my court._

When they next pause for air, he pulls back further and catches Quentin’s gaze. 

“We could, uh,” he says, then has to wet his lips. “We could take this to the sofa?”

Quentin readily agrees, but they never make it into a sitting position, not with Quentin’s hand exploring every inch of Peter’s back and his chest a solid presence against Peter’s front. 

Their next kiss is anything but languid – for the first time, Peter senses that this is Quentin when he doesn’t restrain himself, when he loses himself in Peter and damn, he wants more of that. 

He attacks the buttons of Quentin’s shirt, hands only faltering a little when Quentin actually lets him, and then there’s the bare skin of Quentin’s chest, the light dusting of hair, growing more pronounced underneath the navel and disappearing under a belt buckle. 

Quentin seizes his moment of distraction to grasp the hem of Peter’s tee, then maneuvers him out of it. Of course Peter gets his arms tangled despite the help, but they’re laughing about it a moment later until Quentin stops. Peter briefly fears something is wrong, yet Quentin’s silence is one of appreciation as he rakes his eyes all over Peter’s torso. 

Then there are hands on belts and zippers and socks and all of a sudden, Quentin is naked in front of him, in the middle of his living room. 

He’s beautiful all over, Peter finds, from the broad shoulders to the strong thighs and especially the prominent erection jutting forward, illuminated by the receding light from the ceiling. Peter steps closer, eyes darting between Quentin’s eyes and his cock, taking in the slight upwards curve of the shaft, the impressive girth of it, the curls of pubic hair almost hiding the testicles.

When he reaches for his own pants, however, Quentin says, “Wait.”

Peter assumes Quentin wants to do it himself, but rather than undress him, Quentin pulls their bodies together again. 

Peter can’t help the gasp that escapes him when he feels Quentin’s erection rub against his own, even through a layer of fabric. 

Quentin’s hands roam his shoulders and back before dipping lower. They slip past the hem of Peter’s underwear and close around his ass, squeezing gently. Peter’s hips rock forward on their own accord. 

Quentin hums around a smile and lowers himself to the floor, pulling Peter’s underwear down with him. It takes every ounce of self-control he can muster not to squirm under Quentin’s gaze, especially with his face so close to his cock. 

Oh fuck, is he gonna –

But Quentin straightens again a moment later.

“I have a confession to make, babe,” he says. He sounds contrite and Peter’s stomach clenches. “I… I really don’t like giving head. I love getting them, and I know it makes me a hypocrite, but, well.”

Oh…

“It’s, uh, it’s okay,” Peter says. “It’s not a quid-pro-quo, right? I – I don’t know if I like it, not yet, I mean… but I’d like to try, if you’ll let me. I probably won’t be any good, but you can tell me what you like and I’ll do my best –”

He’s cut off by a passionate kiss. 

“How –” Quentin says between kisses, “are you – so – fucking – perfect?”

Peter’s sure he flushes from his roots down to his neck, but he can’t dwell on it cause Quentin is walking them the final steps towards the sofa, asking if Peter’s sure and tell him it’s fine if he doesn’t want to do it. Peter simply drops to his knees since it seems like it’s gonna get the point across better than any words he could come up with. 

Quentin falls silent immediately. 

He sits down on the edge of the couch without looking, eyes fixed on Peter, and shuffles back as far as he can, making room. 

The only blowjobs Peter has witnessed happened in porn, but he thinks the basics apply. He starts off slowly, just touching, mapping the scope of Quentin’s erection with his fingertips before giving the head a tentative kiss.

The taste is nice – decidedly male, but clean. Quentin must have washed when he went to the bathroom earlier, and Peter appreciates it now, especially as he graduates to licks and first, tentative sucks. 

“Doing so good, babe,” Quentin whispers, “so good, you look so amazing right now.”

Peter smiles around Quentin’s cock and lifts his eyes. He doesn’t expect the shallow thrust his actions prompt, but it’s fine, more than fine. He finds he loves the feeling of Quentin on his tongue, knowing that he’s the cause for his arousal, that he’s the one drawing those moans from him. 

“Oh yeah, babe. Faster, please, you’re killing me…”

Peter does his best to oblige. He can’t fit all of Quentin into his mouth, so he covers the rest of the shaft with his hands, but that quickly proves too dry. He gathers as much saliva in his mouth as he can, then lets it slide down Quentin’s cock until his motions are smooth and rhythmic. 

“A little variation, babe, turn your head a bit, put your tongue – oh yeah, there, so good, babe, your mouth’s so good on my cock…”

Too good, it turns out, cause shortly after, Quentin’s hip buck again. This time, it catches Peter off guard and he gets pulled off and coughs rather pathetically a moment later.

He starts to apologize, but Quentin tugs him up and onto his lap, hands secure on his ass. Peter almost misses Quentin’s next words cause the new position brings their erection together.

“Sh, don’t, it’s fine, babe, it was your first try. We can practice if you liked it?”

Peter nods and moves in for a kiss that never lands cause oh, wow, Quentin’s cock is still spit-slick and hard. Peter holds onto Quentin’s shoulders for balance and gives an experimental roll of his hips that has him gasp and Quentin hum. The hands on his ass start moving then, massaging his cheeks with gentle motions.

“Fuck, babe,” Quentin whispers, “you’ve a spectacular ass, anyone ever tell you that?”

Peter shakes his head as he smiles against Quentin’s lips. As if to underscore his point, Quentin’s fingers dig deeper into Peter’s skin. They don’t stray anywhere else, though, just remain on the swell of flesh, kneading and rubbing, while even the smallest motion of their hips sends delicious waves of friction through Peter’s body. 

He has never been so hard in his life. 

And while Quentin’s a firm presence against his lower abdomen, Peter can’t help but wonder if this is as awesome for the man as it is for himself. 

He drops a hand between their bodies then, and closes it around both their erections. It’s tricky but he manages to set a rhythm, helped by the rhythmic squeezes of Quentin’s hands. 

“Oh yeah, babe, that’s so good… your hand on my cock, you like that?”

Peter’s too out of breath to speak, but he nods. 

“I like it, too, babe, so gorgeous, and damn, your ass. You want me to touch you there, babe? Just touch you, just a little tease.”

Peter gasps his assent, unsure of what to expect. He isn’t prepared for Quentin to bring one hand to his own mouth and wet a finger, which he then places on top of Peter’s cleft, exposed through his position in Quentin’s lap.

He hasn’t even touched Peter and he’s already quivering in anticipation. 

Quentin slowly traces a path down, down, until he can circle Peter’s entrance with feather-light touches. Peter’s too overwhelmed to continue stroking them. He breathes out, eyes closing, blinking open only at the sound of Quentin’s voice. 

“Oh yeah, you like it, don’t you babe? I bet I can get you off like this, just with my finger in your ass. Would you like that?”

“I… ngh…”

Peter’s reply dissolves into a moan when Quentin’s other hand returns to their neglected erections. Quentin’s has flagged a bit, he notices through a haze of arousal, but why, why when every nerve ending in Peter’s body seems to be on fire –

“Imagine if it were my cock, babe, my cock rubbing against your hole. We’ll get there, no rush, we’ll get there when you’re ready, babe, just enjoy…”

“I,” Peter says, breathless, “I am, I’m ready.”

The finger pauses. Quentin pulls back so their eyes can meet and Peter sees the sudden dilation of Quentin’s pupils no matter how quickly the man schools his expression.

“Babe, it’s okay. Don’t do this for my sake.”

“I’m not,” Peter says, his voice firmer this time. “I want to.”

Quentin regards him for a moment. Peter hopes it’s conviction and not nerves showing on his face. 

Eventually, Quentin says, “You’ve gotta be sure. We can wait, babe. I meant it, there’s no rush. As long as you want.”

“No, no, I…” Peter swallows. “I trust you.”

That does it. When Quentin smiles into their next kiss, arms wrapping around him, Peter feels like the king of the world. 

He extracts himself from Quentin’s lap, who is on his feet immediately and gently tugs Peter away from the sofa, through the kitchen, past the bathroom and opens the door at the end of hallway. 

The bed is to their right, across from a wardrobe that covers the entire wall, its doors functioning as a huge mirror. Straight ahead is a window, with golden-colored drapes blocking out the fading light of the setting sun.

Once they reach the mattress, Quentin turns Peter around and walks him back with a kiss. When his thighs hit the edge of the bed, it’s the most natural thing to lower himself onto it. Quentin never breaks their kiss, not even when he braces himself on his elbows above Peter.

“You want me to prep you, babe?” he whispers.

The image of Quentin spreading him open almost short-circuits Peter’s brain, especially after feeling just one of Quentin’s fingers, but he must have managed a coherent response cause Quentin reaches for his nightstand, retrieves a bottle of lube (the really expensive kind, Peter remembers form his curious forays into CVS) and a condom. 

“It’ll be easier on all fours, just for this bit. I’ll talk you through everything I’m doing, okay, in case you ever wanna do it yourself. Or have you? Worked yourself open?”

No, he’s never dared explore it, Peter admits, which has Quentin curse and vow, “I’m gonna make you feel so good, I promise”. 

And he does. 

All Peter feels at first is a single finger spreading lube along his crack, then massaging the rim of his entrance and coaxing it into relaxation. The first intrusion burns but his body adjusts soon, just like Quentin said it would in his commentary. 

At two fingers, Peter gasps in pain. 

“Breathe, babe, breathe through it,” Quentin says. 

It’s incredible how quickly his body grows used to the intrusion, cause soon after Quentin adds a third finger, the flare of renewed pain morphs into a wave of pleasure instead.

“That’s it, babe, so good. I’ll be right back. You can lay down, okay?”

Peter drops onto the mattress without further prompting, still processing how it could feel so wonderful yet somehow unable to imagine how Quentin’s cock will compare to his fingers. 

Quentin returns from washing his hands and immediately captures Peter’s lips in a kiss. 

“You sure, babe?”

“I am.”

After a beat, Quentin nods. He quickly puts on the condom, then instructs Peter to turn around so his back is to Quentin’s chest and Quentin’s right arm can hold him close. The other hand strokes Peter’s stretched opening, nudging his left leg up and – 

It _hurts._

“Breathe, babe,” Quentin says, calm and collected, and Peter uses that as his anchor. 

_In. Out. In. Out._

Slowly, the burning pain fades. 

Quentin pushes in further. Peter gasps but starts breathing deeply immediately after. 

A third thrust, and Quentin bottoms out. Peter focuses on his breathing until that shift occurs again, pain giving way to pleasure.

“Okay,” he pants, “I’m…”

Quentin must understand him since a second later he starts moving, slowly at first, then swiftly building a rhythm eased by lube and preparation. 

“God, babe, you’ve got such a receptive ass, you take it so well,” Quentin whispers against his ear, arm tightening over Peter’s chest with every thrust and sending sparks of pleasure straight down to his groin. 

Peter shifts so he can stroke himself, but Quentin slaps his hand away.

“Let me, babe, I’ll make you feel so good,” he says, just as his fingers touch Peter’s cock for the very first time. 

He’s surrounded by Quentin, back, front, side, inside and out. He’s never felt anything like it. It’s five, maybe six strokes and he’s coming, long white stripes over Quentin’s hand and sheets. 

Quentin doesn’t last long after that. 

One more, deep thrust, and Quentin moans into his back, the fingers of his left hand digging into Peter’s hip. 

Peter can feel Quentin’s breath against the nape of his neck for several blissful moments before they have to disentangle themselves. Peter can’t remember the last time he was this sated when sleep claimed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on chapter 8 at the moment, so chances are good the next update won't take so long :)


	4. four

Peter is trying to lay out the papers he just printed as neatly as possible on his bed when May knocks on his open door. 

“Ohhh, exciting,” she coos. “Caltech? Columbia?”

Peter shakes his head. “Co-op. Those two went out last week.”

“I thought that was UCB?”

“That, too,” he grins. 

May throws up her hands, but Peter can tell her exasperation is mostly compensation since she feels guilty for not being up-to-date. Not guilty enough to keep better track of his application process, but there you are. 

Which, in fact, Peter is grateful for. He has Quentin for handholding – both figuratively and literally. 

“Need any help?” 

“Nah, I got it. Thanks, May.”

“You heading over to Ned’s later?”

Peter places the glowing reference he got from Mr. Barnes himself on the references pile before he shrugs. “Probably.”

“Dinner, too?”

A beat. Peter tears his attention away from the papers to take a closer look at his aunt. “Maybe… why?” 

May hesitates, then steps forward to take Peter’s hand in her own. “Sweetie, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but… I’m going on a date tonight.”

Peter feels his eyebrows climb up to meet his hairline. “A date? With who?”

“A friend of Suzy’s from work. She’s been trying to set me up with him for months, but I never felt ready.”

“And now you… do?”

“Oh hell no,” May laughs. “But Clint said the first few dates are going to suck anyway, so I might as well start now and get them out of the way.”

“Um, I can ask Mr. Leeds if I can stay for dinner? I’m sure he won’t mind.”

May nods, biting her lip. “Alright… but it’s okay, isn’t it? That I’m… putting myself out there again?”

Peter hoped she wouldn’t outright ask, yet no such luck. 

“Um, sure. I mean… Ben would’ve wanted you to move on eventually. This is… it’s good. It’s progress. I’m happy for you.”

His throat closes up then, so it’s probably for the best that May pulls him into a grateful hug. His act must have been quite convincing. 

Quentin, however, isn’t fooled. 

“Babe, what’s wrong?” he asks in lieu of greeting when his face appears on the video call tab on Peter’s laptop. It’s Saturday morning and Quentin’s still in his lab, meaning he never went home the night before.

“I thought you said you’d be finished by midnight?”

“Yeah, had to redo some calibrations, nothing major, and hey, this way I got an early start today. Now tell me, babe.”

Peter does, careful to keep his voice low so that May won’t overhear (even though she’s trying on outfits and ignoring everything around her) and immediately feels better for sharing. 

“I’m sorry, babe. D’you think it’s too soon?”

“No, I… maybe? I don’t… It just feels so… sudden.”

“It’s been more than two years.” 

Peter knows that, objectively speaking, it’s plenty of time, but the thought of May replacing Ben so quickly stirs something unpleasant deep within him.

“Babe, you gotta look at it from her perspective,” Quentin says. At Peter’s prompting expression, he continues. “She was married to Ben for what, twenty years?”

“Nineteen.”

“Imagine spending that much time sharing your life with another person. Being loved by someone and loving them. Now imagine all that taken away, and suddenly you’re all alone, no one next to you.” Quentin sighs, and rubs the bridge of his nose before he says, “I mean, it’s only been four months, babe, but I’d feel incredibly lonely if you were gone all of a sudden.”

Peter can’t help but blink back at the screen. He was just thinking the exact same thing. 

“I… dito,” he manages, and Quentin must be able to tell he’s affected cause his smile softens. 

“Now, with that out of the way, why don’t we start? Got everything?”

Grateful for the change in topic, Peter tilts the laptop screen in a way that Quentin can see the neatly organized papers on the bed and steps up to the mattress while Quentin pulls up something on his own screen. 

“Good. Hang on, let me – alright. Cover letter?”

Peter snatches it off the bed and holds it up so that Quentin can see. “Check.”

They repeat the process for every other item requested for the application to the Stark Industries co-op program, including the assignments they required as well as a few more cause Peter got inspired, plus…

“One brilliant and profoundly moving personal essay?”

Peter ducks his head even as he grabs the respective papers. Damn, he really thought he’d have grown immune to blushing after their first month together. But it’s been four and nope, his cheeks still think heating up is the appropriate response to every compliment and praise Quentin doles out.

His essay’s awesome, though. Of course he wrote about Ben, but rather than focus on his death, Peter showed how the lessons Ben learned during his work as a probation officer shaped him and, in turn, made Peter the man he is today. Ned and May both got teary-eyed while reading the first draft and deemed it perfect, yet Quentin sent it back littered with little notes in red.

“I wanna see you succeed,” he said. “Writing you a reference myself would be unethical, but I’d say I know what HR is looking for when trying to find viable candidates.”

Peter thinks he learned more during their two-hour editing session than he ever did in AP English, and he said as much to Quentin, who pulled him close. 

“Well, I do have a few years on you, babe. Gotta be useful for something.”

It’s more than useful, Peter thinks. Nothing short of awesome – while his classmates are engulfed in messy teen romances, exploding with hormones and drama, Peter has laid-back, daily video chats with Quentin whenever they don’t manage to meet in person. He also has delicious take-out when they do and Quentin’s too exhausted to cook (he’s amazing at it), and someone to discuss the latest scientific articles with him. 

Not to mention the sex. 

From his classmates, Peter has gotten the distinct impression that early experiences tend to go horribly, especially when neither of the people involved has any hands-on experience. 

Quentin, though… Quentin has _skills_. 

Whether it’s because he’s naturally talented or he’s had a disproportionate amount of practice, Peter doesn’t want to ask. It’s not important, anyway. They’re together now, and Quentin is all Peter’s, who soaks up as much knowledge as he can to ensure his learning curve won’t leave Quentin frustrated. 

As great as it is for Peter to have an experienced partner, he doubts Quentin always shares the sentiment. He’d never say it, though, but Peter… well, he wonders sometimes. 

“All done?”

Peter blinks back to the present, where he just sealed off the envelope that’s going to decide his future. 

“Great, babe,” Quentin says, eyes darting somewhere off screen, “I gotta go. But you’re off to post it today, right? Then Ned’s?”

Peter nods. “I’ll probably stay for dinner, cause, um, May’s on her date.” 

He likes that Quentin cares so much about his day and wants to stay in the loop, no matter how dull. It’s a wonderful feeling. 

“Why don’t you come join us at the bar after?” 

Quentin’s nonchalant tone is at odds with the glint in his eyes – and the jolt in Peter’s stomach. 

“You mean it?”

Quentin nods. “Time to meet the gang, babe,” he says, and Peter knows he’s grinning like mad but sue him, they’ve only been talking about Peter meeting Quentin’s friends for weeks. 

With both his applications to his shortlisted universities and Stark Industries (due in a week, but Peter wanted to be early), his days have been quite busy. Quentin told him to focus on school, and he’s right. His future needs to be his first priority; meeting the most important people in his boyfriend’s life can wait.

_Boyfriend._

Even the word makes Peter giddy. 

By the time he actually arrives at the bar where the group meets at – a small but cozy joint that’s been around for ages judging by the well-used look of everything – he’s a nervous wreck. 

He only calms a little when he spots Quentin at the head of a table, drinking beer straight from the bottle with six others, two of whom Peter recognizes: Janice from Shipping, dressed as blandly outside of work as she is during, as well as Drone Da– uh, William. Without his lab coat, which Peter didn’t think possible. 

There’s also a tall redhead giving off a very imposing vibe, a dude in his 30s rocking an afro, a tall 40-something in sleek clothes, and a grim-looking man wearing all black with a beard and a ponytail. 

They all cheer when Janice spots Peter and announces his arrival. He would have turned and run if it weren’t for Quentin’s hand on his wrist and the thorough kiss he’s greeted with. 

He can taste the beer on Quentin’s tongue. It’s not as bad as Peter expected. 

The cheering turns into whistles and coughed comments to ‘get a room’ from someone, but Quentin simply deepens the kiss. 

Needless to say, Peter’s face is on fire when they pull apart. 

“Ohhh, so he is with you for the sex,” the redhead says, smirking. 

Quentin lets the jibe pass. “Peter, this is Victoria. Ignore everything she says.”

“You won’t if you know what’s good for you, sugar. I’m in IT,” she adds when Peter looks nonplussed. 

“Oh, yeah. Noted.”

“Aw, I like this one.”

“We had him first,” William interrupts, which prompts Janice to chime in since technically, she saw him before either of the others did, and Peter is just surprised he left that much of an impression that she recalls the three instances they met. 

The remaining strangers aren’t strangers at all, it turns out, cause Quentin has mentioned them plenty of times: Doug from Accounting, Guterman from Marketing, and Dimitri from Maintenance.

Both Doug and Guterman shake his hands, looking skeptical, while Dimitri ignores Peter’s hand in favor of seizing him up. Then he turns towards the others and gives a tiny nod. 

When Doug and Guterman immediately mellow towards him, Peter wonders if he unwittingly walked into a test he has to ace in order to keep dating Quentin, but the man in question just snorts at his friends’ antics. 

Apparently, alcohol is partially to blame for their merry state. 

“It’s not even eight…” Peter says, then trails off when he notices that no one’s listening to him. 

Quentin has returned with Peter’s lemonade (straw included, because he’s dating a 33-year-old sap) and another round of shots for everyone else. 

Victoria notices first. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who don’t drink, sugar.”

“Um. I’m not 21 yet.”

Victoria blinks, then tosses her hair behind her shoulder with an air of ‘fair enough’ and joins in the conversation evolving between Janice and Quentin. Across the table. Peter catches William’s eye. 

“Quentin mentioned you’ve sent in your application to SI.”

“Yeah.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Several seconds pass in silence during which Peter casts about for anything he remembers about the guy that might carry them beyond small talk. 

“Uh, did you manage to get tickets?”

Apparently, William’s trying to woo a die-hard Yankees fan by inviting her to a game, but has yet to score tickets as he explains – at length. 

“We watched the game at a diner instead. It was nice,” William says, then proceeds to tell Peter everything he never wanted to know about his co-worker’s current crush. 

Fortunately, something Guterman says draws William’s attention. 

Less fortunately, the conversation quickly escalates from there. 

“Is that why you were at work this morning?” Janice asks, prompting a very derisive eye-roll from Guterman. 

“No, dear, I enjoy spending my weekends at the office.”

Next to Peter, Quentin has gone still, his eyes on Guterman. “Do you know what he plans to do with it?”

“Energy sector. First companies that can afford it, then government contracts.”

“Sorry, who?” Peter says, half expecting to be ignored but Quentin turns to him with a grim expression usually reserved for those who fail to meet his expectations. 

“Stark.”

“He found a way to make the element he created commercially viable,” Guterman explains, “which means –”

“– the arc reactor could be mass produced,” Peter finishes, feeling excited joy bubble up in his chest. “That’s awesome!”

“Not when he’s stealing tech,” William grumbles.

Quentin tsks. “Appropriating, William. Legally speaking, he holds the copyright.”

Peter has never heard his partner’s voice drip with so much disdain, yet after the group fills in a few more gaps, Peter is beginning to understand where it’s coming from: making the energetic potential of the element Tony Stark invented more easily available to the public isn’t the problem – the fact that he’s appropriating three years worth of another mechatronic engineer’s research and putting his name on it is. 

“Can he do that?”

“Yeah, babe,” Quentin says, still scowling. “You’ll see when you get your contract. Everything we design for his company is legally his. The jester king always has the last laugh, doesn’t he?”

Conversations splinter again after that, with Quentin quizzing Guterman about PR’s strategy regarding the new element, but Peter only manages to listen with half an ear. 

Would Tony Stark do something like this? Would he simply take another person’s achievements and brand them as his own? If so – how many of the inventions Peter so admires originated on someone else’s desk? 

Has Quentin always known? Is that why he’s so critical of Tony Stark? 

Peter isn’t sure he wants an answer to these questions, so he doesn’t ask. 

Quentin excuses himself to use the bathroom shortly afterwards, leaving Peter alone with Guterman, who considers Peter for a moment of awkward silence. 

“How do you know Rogers?”

“Uh, through my aunt,” Peter hedges. 

If he tells Guterman about the Red Room, he’ll have to explain how his aunt became involved with them, which inevitably leads to the ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ dance Peter began to hate two days after Ben’s death. 

So he swiftly deflects and asks if Steve’s a good boss, then puzzles over Guterman’s prosaic answers for a while. 

It’s only on the short walk to Quentin’s place afterwards that Peter remembers why it felt like déjà vu – Ned had the same evasive replies when Peter checked in with him about his college applications. 

“Even the late deadlines are gonna be past soon,” Peter says, cause he was so preoccupied that Quentin picked up on it when he unlocked his door. “He says he’ll make it, but… he sounds different when he’s sure of something.”

Quentin places his palm on Peter’s cheek. “He’s your best friend, of course you worry.”

“Should I talk to him? Ask him about it?”

“No, no, he trusts you, babe. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.”

Quentin underscores his conviction with a kiss, soft at first but swiftly gaining in momentum. Peter is glad for the distraction and even happier when Quentin walks them into the bedroom without breaking the kiss. 

“I wanna feel your mouth on me, babe,” Quentin whispers against his lips, voice tight with need and arousal. “Wanna feel you so bad.”

Peter doesn’t waste any time and drops to his knees right there in the middle of the bedroom. Quentin shifts their position a little when he steps out of his pants and underwear so they’re parallel to the bed and the mirror, though the implications don’t occur to Peter until he’s built a rhythm. 

“Look at you, babe, so fucking hot, so hot with your lips around my cock, fuck…”

Peter doesn’t quite understand what the appeal is, but it obviously adds to Quentin’s experience, who watches his erection slide in and out of Peter’s mouth with heavy-lidded eyes. 

Peter’s still refining his blowjob technique, but he keeps Quentin’s attention longer and longer each time he tries, and today is no exception. He’s never been able to make Quentin come in his mouth, even though he _could_ cause they both got tested and received a clean bill of health. 

That seems to be about to change tonight, though. 

“Babe, I got an idea,” Quentin pants, gently pushing Peter off his cock. “Clothes off. Lay down on your back… no, your head towards the door.” 

Quentin trails off on an appreciative hum and retrieves the lube while Peter stays draped across the lower third of the bed. It makes more sense a moment later when the mattress dips behind him and slick fingers reach for his ass. 

“I wanna make you feel good, babe,” Quentin murmurs, already able to slip in the first fingertip since by now, Peter’s body is used to the intrusion. “I’m gonna fuck you so well on my hand that I’ll hear your moans around my cock.”

The mental image alone sends a wave of arousal through Peter, but it’s nothing compared to actively experiencing it: Quentin kneeling next to his head, setting the rhythm with the snap of his hips and the thrusting of his fingers while Peter fists the sheets.

Quentin knows exactly where to probe and push to make him gasp, which is how Peter discovers that if he angles his head just right, Quentin can slide further into his mouth than ever before. 

He has to lift his head a bit and fight his gag reflex, but it’s a small price to pay for the sounds Quentin makes, gasps and muffled grunts and _oh gawd_, he found Peter’s prostate… 

His own erection is demanding attention, but Peter knows that Quentin prefers it if he’s the one making Peter come, so he digs his nails deeper into the sheets and focuses on the intense sensations of Quentin filling him so thoroughly. 

Too soon, Quentin pulls out of his mouth. Peter cranes his neck to chase after his cock, glistening with saliva and precome, but Quentin shakes his head even as the hand not buried in Peter’s ass starts stroking his erection. 

“Nah, I don’t wanna choke you, babe.”

“I can take it,” Peter says, before a brush against his prostate makes him tighten his grip on the sheets. 

Quentin smiles down at him, still jerking himself. “I know, babe, I know,” he says, but Peter can’t really focus cause there’s still pressure on his prostate, moving in maddening circles. “You take everything, take it so beautifully, you’re gorgeous, babe, fuck, you make me crazy…”

Maybe it’s the way Quentin’s angling his cock, maybe it’s the glimpse Peter catches of his own bruised lips and flushed cheeks in the wardrobe mirror, but something in Peter’s brain connects the dots. 

“Come on my face,” he gasps, “please, I…”

This wave of pleasure makes his toes curl. 

“You wanna taste me, babe?” Quentin says, his breath growing ragged now. “Want my come on you?”

Peter opens his mouth as wide as he can even as he’s arching his back off the mattress from what Quentin’s hand is doing to him. His nonverbal response must have tipped the scale cause then Quentin’s coming, in long warm stripes that hit Peter’s cheek, tongue and lips. 

He waits until he feels Quentin’s eyes on him to swallow and is rewarded with a hand on his cock. The relief blots out the bitter taste that lingers, which is completely eclipsed a moment later when Peter’s orgasm crashes into him. 

He can feel the come drying on his cheek even as he catches his breath. Too comfortable to move much, he stretches a little so he can dart around the floor at the foot of the bed for – ah, yeah, that will do. 

But the moment he makes to wipe his face, he spots Quentin’s wistful expression. His boyfriend obviously likes seeing him like this. He also likes to hold Peter through the afterglow, tugged against his chest with an arm over Peter’s waist. It seemed a bit confining at first until Peter learned to relax into it. Now, he values the calm, quiet minutes in Quentin’s embrace before he has to leave.

Tonight, however, Quentin simply shuffles closer.

“I’m sorry, babe.”

“Wha… why?”

“For springing this on you,” he says, bringing one hand up to caress Peter’s still come-covered cheek. “I should’ve asked, I know, I’ve been thinking about it in the shower all week but I never … I’m sorry.”

Hearing Quentin sound so conflicted does horrible things to Peter’s chest and he quickly grabs Quentin’s hand before he can pull it out of reach. 

“Hey, hey, no, it’s fine, it was great, really, I loved it,” he babbles and Quentin’s consternated expression mellows, so he follows it up with a kiss and then another, until the last of the tension bleeds from Quentin’s body. 

“You’re so good to me, babe,” he whispers, eyes closed, “so damn good. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, you know that?”

Peter’s too stunned to reply even as his heart thumps loudly in his chest cause that… wow. 

“You, too,” he eventually manages and finds himself at the receiving end of one of Quentin’s warmest, most gentle smiles. It’s real and pure and makes Peter’s pulse do somersaults. 

He can’t wait until he’s 18 and finally gets to introduce Quentin to May.

Granted, she knows he’s dating – well, kind of. It would have been impossible to keep the entire thing a secret from her, especially considering how overprotective she can get, so Peter admitted to seeing someone. Who that someone is, though, and how serious their relationship already is, remains unsaid.  
This year, his birthday falls on a Friday in November, so their plan is to take May out to a nice restaurant the Saturday after, where Quentin will be waiting. Sure, there’s potential for it to go sideways, but once May sees how great Quentin is, she’ll fall for him just as quickly as Peter did. 

Too bad reality works out a little differently. 

On November 24, Peter suffers through a full day of school but skips homework in favor of spending the afternoon with Ned and his new PS4 game. Unfortunately, Ned is on kitchen duty this week and Mr. Leeds won’t even let him off the hook for Peter, so he’s got an hour or two to kill before his aunt returns from work and they can head out to their traditional birthday dinner. 

He’s just contemplating whether or not it would be sad or cool if he did his homework anyway when the doorbell rings. 

It’s Quentin, dressed in dark slacks and a deep green shirt, right hand hidden behind his back while his left –

“Happy birthday, babe,” he says, holding out the most beautiful bouquet that Peter has ever seen.

“No one’s ever brought me flowers before,” he manages after a beat, but his expression must have conveyed how affected he is since Quentin smiles. 

“You deserve them, babe. If you let me in, I’ll even give you your present.”

Belatedly, Peter realizes that they’re still in the hallway, and _shit_, the apartment’s a mess and Peter’s room is chaos cause it’s his birthday and he didn’t bother with tidying up but Quentin’s a real neat-freak, what’s he gonna think –

“It’s so homey,” Quentin says. “I like it.”

Peter’s about to stifle his sigh when Quentin extends his right hand, holding a delicately wrapped parcel with a gold ribbon. His sigh morphs into something much more embarrassing, but Quentin just shakes his head and laughs, then motions for him to open the gift. 

The wrapping paper is so exquisite Peter feels bad about damaging it, but he has to in order to get to what’s inside.

It’s actually three things: one crisp, white shirt, one pale blue, and one incredibly soft scarf in shades of grey. 

“Now you’ll have more than one shirt to wear on our dates,” Quentin says, taking the scarf and wrapping it around Peter’s neck. “And this made me think of you when I saw it. There. Oh yes, it suits you so well. Why don’t you try on the shirts? See if they fit?”

They do. Very well, in fact, if Quentin’s heady reaction is anything to go by. 

“What, uh, what’re you doing here?” Peter can’t help but ask. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, cause I am, really, but…”

“But you thought I was at work? Well, someone told me they’d be all alone for hours on their birthday, and we can’t have that, can we, so I left early.”

If Peter thought he was touched before, he’s positively fawning now. Quentin closes the distance between them with one swift step, and Peter melts into their kiss. He loves the way Quentin runs his hands along his arms and shoulders, loves it even more when those hands pull him closer as he deepens the kiss. 

Before he knows it, he’s out of breath and half hard, with Quentin opening the buttons of his shirt as quickly as he can without tearing them. 

He also loves how much Quentin obviously enjoys looking at him, touching him, trailing kisses down his neck and gripping his ass and – 

“What the fuck?!”

They both freeze. 

Then May is there, pushing Quentin away from Peter and shouting, “Get away from him! Who the hell are you?”

“May, no,” Peter says, trying to hide his bare chest as best as he can, “he’s my boyfriend!”

May whirls around to fix him with a sharp look. “_That’s_ your boyfriend?”

Which is when Quentin recovers control of his limbs and voice. “You must be May Parker,” he says, opting to straighten his collar rather than extending a hand. “It’s an honor to meet you. Peter has told me so much about you.”

“Well, that’s great cause he’s told me next to nothing about you. Like your name. Or how old you are.”

“We met at Stark Industries, he’s an engineer there,” Peter rushes to say, cause May is growing quite still, which is very bad sign indeed, “and we got together after my internship ended –” at least in the official version they decided on – “and I was gonna introduce you to him tomorrow, I swear –”

“Then what’s he doing here now?! Is that what you do when I’m not home?”

“What? No! May, I – I just told him I’d be on my own till you came home and he didn’t want me to be alone on my birthday and, and look, he brought me flowers,” he says, picking the bouquet up from where he left them on the back of the sofa. “Do we have something to put them in?”

The sight of the flowers quells May’s anger a little, but Peter doesn’t dare relax. He exchanges a quick glance with Quentin, who’s been watching the scene unfold but now seizes the moment. 

“I promise, Ms. Parker, I only have the best intentions towards your nephew. He’s…” Quentin trails off, eye catching Peter’s before he swallows visibly. “He’s an extraordinary young man.”

“He’s a _child_.”

“I’m eighteen!”

“As of today,” May snaps. “How long’s this been going on? And you, do you make a habit of sleeping with teenagers?” 

Lesser men would have taken one or several steps back if May charged at them like this, but Quentin stands his ground.

“No. I never expected this. But I don’t regret a moment I’ve spent with your nephew, Ms. Parker.”

His calm response takes some of the wind out of May’s sails, but that has the unfortunate effect that she orders Peter to “Go put on a T-shirt, _for God’s sake_,” basically banning him from the room. 

He speeds through the process of hanging up his shirts (like Quentin taught him is essential for proper garment care) and deciding on which of his tees says ‘I’m a mature young adult’ as opposed to ‘Hey, I’m an awkward teenage nerd that shouldn’t be allowed to date at all’. 

He settles on the blue long-sleeve May gave him last Christmas and prepares for the worst when he re-enters the living room. 

To his surprise, however, May seems to have cooled off. There’s a lot less venom in her gaze and she lets Quentin talk. Peter only catches the tail end of Quentin’s speech, but he can tell whatever he said worked wonders. 

“At least give me a chance, Ms. Parker. Let me take you out to dinner. Peter mentioned you like larb and I know this incredible Southeast Asian restaurant with a cook from Laos who makes it exactly like it tastes in Vientiane. Worst-case scenario, you get a delicious meal for free. What do you say?”

That’s how they end up at Mekong Palace, where Peter watches in amazement how his aunt grows less and less hostile as the evening goes on. When they part ways, Quentin paying for their cab, she even lets them have a goodbye kiss. 

En route to their apartment, the silence lasts for long, torturous minutes. 

Eventually, May heaves a sigh. “You’re in love with him.”

It’s not a question, but Peter nods regardless. 

“You’re so young, Peter. You don’t even know yourself yet –”

“I’ve known what I wanted to do since I was eleven,” Peter protests, but May just keeps talking. 

“Not to mention, this guy’s sixteen years older than you. You get why I’m concerned, don’t you?”

“I get that from the outside, it might seem a bit… unconventional,” he concedes. “But we fit. I feel… He gets me, you know? He makes me happy. Don’t you want me to be happy?”

It’s kind of a low blow, but Peter can’t see this ending well any other way. He needs his aunt to be okay with this. She’s the only family he has left – he doesn’t want to be forced to choose between her and Quentin for whatever reason.

“Of course, sweetie,” she says, patting his cheek, her fingers more delicate than Quentin’s but equally gentle. “I do. I just… Well. As long as he’s good to you.” 

Relief hits him like a tidal wave. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She withdraws her hand just as they pull into their street. “But Peter?” she adds. “Promise me you’ll tell me the moment anything bothers you, okay?”

He has no idea what she could be referring to but gives her a solemn nod anyway.  
*

Meeting up with Quentin becomes a lot easier now that May is in the know. It helps that Quentin treats them both to dinner on a semi-regular basis and always ensures Peter is home before curfew whenever they’re together. Peter is splitting his time between school, Ned, Quentin and his aunt and enjoys every second of it.

Well… almost. 

Taking the train at ten-thirty at night is getting on both their nerves, but so far Peter hasn’t managed to ask May if he could simply sleep over at Quentin’s for a change. 

Yet for once, it seems, the universe is on their side – cause it’s May who suggests it. 

She starts with an innocuous, “You seeing Quentin tonight?”, followed by a moment of silence after Peter hums in agreement. “You know, I’ve been waiting for you to ask me if you can spend the night, sweetie. I gotta admit, I’m a bit surprised you’ve held out so long.”

“Um,” is Peter’s eloquent reply, “actually… I’ve been meaning to – cause we’ve been dating for a while now and I’m eighteen and –”

“Yes, sweetie. You may sleep over tonight.”

Peter is so thrilled at the prospect it never occurs to him to question why May agreed so readily. 

“Maybe her guy’s coming over and she wants the apartment to herself?” Quentin muses over wholegrain pasta that night. “Works out well for all of us, I’d say.”

Peter is momentarily paralyzed by the thought of his aunt doing _anything_ with that slimy surgeon she’s been seeing, but Quentin distracts him with a forkful of pesto-covered fusilli. 

It’s Friday, so Peter left his schoolwork at home. If he’s over during weekends, he’s learned to bring textbooks and stuff, cause Quentin inevitably has to spend an hour or two on work-related things, but tonight nothing stops them from indulging in each other’s company.

Yet once the noise of Quentin loading the dishwasher has faded, he doesn’t immediately return to the living room. 

Intrigued, Peter rises from the sofa to investigate, and collides with Quentin in the doorway to the bedroom. 

His curiosity is warranted, he finds, when he spots a small paper bag in Quentin’s hands. It’s sleek and unobtrusive, _Pleasure Chest_ written on it in red letters. 

“Tonight is special,” Quentin says, stepping closer. “I wanted to make sure we remember it, so I went shopping. Next time you gotta go with me, babe, see what piques your interest.”

Peter nods while all his attention is on opening the bag in front of him. He has no idea what to expect. 

When Quentin motions for him to go ahead, he slips a hand inside. His fingers close around something smooth and soft, like fabric and… oh. 

“It’s lined with fleece,” Quentin explains, “but the outside is the finest leather. Look at the craftsmanship, babe, isn’t it gorgeous?”

Peter gives an appreciative hum as he turns the blindfold over in his hand. This was obviously expensive, and Peter knows it’s gonna be comfortable to wear. Only – he never even considered being blindfolded before. 

“What’s the problem, babe? Don’t you like it?”

“No, no, I – I do, it’s just… I’ve never tried it before.”

Quentin takes one look at his insecure expression and swoops in for a kiss. 

“Do you trust me?” he whispers against Peter’s lips. “Let me give this to you, babe. You’ll see, you’ll love it. It’s gonna feel so good.”

That is definitely true for the blindfold itself, Peter discovers. The fleece sits softly on his skin, the pre-shaped mold accommodating his nose perfectly. It also eclipses any light there is in the bedroom, leaving Peter with just his remaining senses. 

Quentin starts by slowly stripping him, one item of clothing at a time, following with his fingertips across newly-bared skin. 

Once he’s completely naked, Quentin presses closer, the fabric of his clothes a thrilling sensation against Peter’s body. He never knows where the next kiss will land, where Quentin will touch him next, and the unpredictability of it has him hard from anticipation alone. 

“See,” Quentin purrs, finally wrapping a hand around Peter’s cock, “told you you’d love it.”

Peter can’t deny that, not now, nor later on when the lack of sight makes his world narrow down to the feel of Quentin’s cock in his ass and his fingers digging into his hip. Something about the darkness that surrounds him seems to free him to simply enjoy, to take whatever Quentin decides to give him.

Any worries he has about whether or not it’s as pleasurable for his boyfriend as it is for him vanish when, for the first time in ages, Quentin comes first.

Without the layer of latex between them, Peter thinks he can feel the pulsing of Quentin’s cock, which makes the way Quentin gasps into his shoulder an even better sensation. 

“Gimme a sec, babe,” he pants, clutching Peter’s hips with pleasure-heavy fingers. 

It already takes a lot less of Peter’s self-control to keep himself from touching his throbbing erection than it did a month ago, but it’s still a challenge. Yet Quentin gets grumpy when he fails to resist temptation, and being the cause of his boyfriend’s displeasure makes him feel worse than a bit of delayed gratification.

When Quentin finally takes hold of his cock, Peter keens. The blindfold is heightening all other sensations, including the rhythmic slide of a thumb over his slit and Quentin’s breath on his neck. 

He comes with a shout, into the waiting palm, and barely even registers that Quentin leaves to clean up until he’s back, pulling Peter against his chest. 

“What d’you say, babe?” he asks. “Would you wanna do this again?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, and snuggles closer cause tonight, he doesn’t have to fight off sleep when it claims him.

Quentin’s there in his dreams, too, larger than life and glowing from within, radiating love and affection and a warmth that thaws the snow all around the surreal landscape Peter finds himself exploring and –

An insistent ringing pulls him from sleep. 

Peter blinks his eyes open and tries to locate the source of the – oh. 

It’s Quentin’s alarm clock.

Peter groans and buries himself under the covers again, but a familiar hand slips underneath them and starts raking fingernails down Peter’s arm, just the way that goes straight to his cock. His flagging morning wood comes back to life with a vengeance, and he wonders if Quentin, too, is having a similar situation. 

Finding out would require emerging from his pile of blankets, though, which are warm and so much more comfortable than the cheap sheets in his own bedroom. 

He doesn’t expect Quentin’s hand to dip lower when he doesn’t move, and he especially didn’t think Quentin would start jerking him off as soon as his fingers encounter Peter’s erection. 

Peter groans and throws off the covers. 

Quentin’s smirking at him and doesn’t stop stroking Peter when he says, “Good morning, babe.”

“Ngh,” is as far as Peter gets before he dissolves into incoherent moans cause damn, Quentin knows _exactly_ how to touch him for maximum impact. 

It feels only natural for him to wrap his lips around Quentin’s cock after such a spectacular orgasm, made that much more memorable when Quentin places his hands on the sides of Peter’s face and thrusts into him in swift, shallow movements. 

“God, babe, you’re so good to me, damn, you’re perfect,” Quentin gasps, just as his climax washes over him. 

Peter swallows every last drop. 

He did it. He made Quentin come in his mouth.  
Grinning, he settles back onto the mattress and is fully prepared to doze off again when Quentin asks, “Wanna join me at the gym?”

Peter blinks. “Gym?”

Quentin nods. “It’s only three floors below. I go every morning.”

“It’s Saturday…”

“No reason to slack off,” Quentin counters, and gets out of bed like… oh no. Like the chipper morning person he is. 

Peter groans into the pillow, then yelps when Quentin slaps his bare ass. 

“Come on, sleeping beauty. It’s gonna be fun. We can shower together afterwards.”

They could shower together without hitting the gym first, Peter thinks, but he bites his tongue. After all, Quentin hasn’t steered him wrong yet. Maybe early morning workouts are exactly what have been missing in Peter’s life?

Spoiler alert: they’re not. 

“I don’t get it,” Quentin says, looking down at where Peter is guzzling Gatorade by the gallon to compensate for the loss of sweat in the past hour, “you’re doing gymnastics two or three times a week. This should be nothing.”

Peter has no explanation, and for what it’s worth, he’d rather rehydrate than speak right now, thank you very much. 

The entire ordeal becomes worth it, however, when they’re back in Quentin’s apartment, stripping out of their sweaty clothes, and Peter gets to marvel at the impressive sight that is Quentin’s muscled back right after a workout. 

If anyone can turn Peter into a morning person, it’s Quentin.  
*

The chance to introduce Quentin to Ned doesn’t arise until late January when Peter learns he made it to the next round of the application process and is invited to an interview at Stark Industries. 

Quentin allows him to panic for a moment, then tells him they’ll be spending the weekend preparing Peter for his appointment with HR on Monday. 

“But… I was gonna go to Ned’s.”

“It’s your future, babe. I’m just looking out for you. If you’d rather play video games than take this seriously, be my guest.”

Quentin must see the way his words landed, because he quickly pulls Peter into a hug. 

“Sorry, babe. I just know how important this is to you.”

Peter breathes in the soothing scent of Quentin’s aftershave and feels the hurt evaporate immediately. In its wake, there’s an idea. 

“Um, could Ned help?”

It takes some convincing, which somehow escalates into a celebratory blowjob and Quentin fucking Peter against the kitchen counter, but two hours later, Ned’s gaping at Quentin’s apartment and asking about a million questions.

“How can you afford this place and not have any consoles?”

“I work in mysterious ways,” Quentin manages to say with a straight face, while Peter laughs at the pun. 

Of course then he has to remind Ned of the nickname culture at SI, and before he knows, Ned and Quentin are talking about holography and code, but in a way that goes way over Peter’s head. He doubts some of it is even English.

He tunes back in when Ned boots up his laptop on the coffee table and shows Quentin a program he built. 

From what he gathers, it’s a software that masks your online activity. Though rather than set up a VPN or install Tor or manually go through all the settings in your browser plugins and more, it’s all done automatically by the protocol with one click. 

“I just had enough of going through this process every time someone asked me for a favor and I figured, why not automate it? So I wrote this,” Ned concludes. 

If Quentin picks up on the implied legal grey area of the ‘favors’ Ned does for their schoolmates, he doesn’t show it. “Peter mentioned you’re good with computers,” he says, “but that’s nothing short of impressive.”

Ned straightens at the praise and flashes Peter a grin. “Yeah, he’s more of a hardware guy.”

“I noticed,” Quentin says, tone heavy with innuendo that Ned misses completely but makes Peter blush. 

Peter takes a closer look at the screen then, hoping to find something he can use to steer the conversation into less ambiguous waters, but he gets stuck at the line number. 

Now, he knows that Ned’s using Python 2 to program stuff, which needs a lot less space, but even then 114,076 lines of code seem a bit… much. 

“Ned,” he says at length. “How’d you manage to get this done with applications and stuff?”

“Huh?”

Peter gestures to the text editor. “This! How’d you find the time?”

“Uh…” 

Ned’s face could be the picture on the Wikipedia page for the ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ look. 

A horrible suspicion dawns on Peter. “Man… please tell me you weren’t lying about your applications.”

“I wasn’t lying?” Ned tries, but Peter’s known him long enough to tell when he’s being sincere, and besides, Ned’s not any good at making excuses to begin with. 

“Okay, look,” Ned says after a beat, raising his hands. “I really did write my applications. Well, kinda.”

“How d’you _kinda_ write an –”

“I started them, okay, but I’d get stuck, couldn’t even write the general essay. My sister’s essay got her into med school, and my writing sucks, and my Day kept making suggestions for colleges and, well, then I got the idea for this,” he says, pointing towards his laptop. “And it was a lot more fun than school, and isn’t college more of the same? I don’t… I don’t wanna go to school anymore, man. I just wanna… I don’t know, okay? But not that.”

When he finishes, Ned looks so dejected and downtrodden that Peter can’t even bring himself to be angry. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, man?”

Ned just shrugs, slumping further down onto the sofa.

Peter can’t stand to see his best friend so unhappy so he sits down next to him and gives him a sideways hug. 

They stay like that until Quentin clears his throat next to them.

“I don’t think college is the right fit for you.”

Peter would be hard-pressed to say who of them looks more surprised. 

“But –” Peter starts, but Quentin interrupts. 

“For you, babe, it is. I’m sure you’ll thrive in college. But from what I’ve seen, Ned’s an autodidact. You don’t need further education – you need an environment where you can learn.”

“Like… like a start-up? Or something?”

“Or Google.”

Ned splutters, yet when Quentin’s expression remains serious, he quickly sobers. 

“Do you know anyone?” Peter asks, cause he can see a familiar glint in Quentin’s eyes. “Anyone there?”

“At _nest_. A former classmate of mine recently made lead engineer.”

Peter has no idea how a nest is related to Google, but Ned’s eyes have grown big and he leaps from his spot on the sofa in excitement. 

“That is so awesome! Do you think he’d look at my code?”

“She,” Quentin corrects. “And sure. You’re gonna have to sign a liability waiver, but if you do, then I don’t see why not.”

“Wait,” Peter says, suddenly remembering something. “Is that the same woman who recommended Victoria to you?”

Quentin smiles and places a kiss on Peter’s temple now that the space between them is free. “You remember, babe. Yeah, same one.” To Ned, he says, “Give me your email, and I’ll make the introductions. The rest is up to you.”

*

Things move quickly in IT, so by the time Peter paces around school prior to his interview that afternoon, Ned has news. 

“She says it’s not really her area, but Quentin’s never been wrong so she’s forwarding it to the right department and oh my gawd, your boyfriend is the best!”

Peter can’t argue with that. 

He also can’t argue that the practice interviews Quentin conducted with him yesterday did wonders to prepare him for today’s experience. 

The lady from Human Resources is just as intimidating as Quentin said she’d be, but Shuri’s there, too, as well as the Head of Security, who seems to take a liking to Peter as soon as he finds out Peter has zero talent for lying. 

His acceptance email comes three days later. 

That’s two days after Ned was invited out to Silicon Valley for the weekend, and in a spur-of-the-moment decision, Quentin books flights and surprises Peter with a trip to Mountain View, San José. 

“Thank you so much for this,” Peter whispers against Quentin’s lips as they wait for their flight back to New York. 

“Anything for you, babe.”

Ned’s a couple of feet away, on the phone with his dad to tell him the great news – not only did he sell the program he wrote instead of college applications, he also landed a paid internship position starting in September… at Google itself. 

It’s a dream come true for his best friend, Peter knows, and the sheer joy of it is enough to eclipse the fact that they’re gonna be on two completely opposite sides of the country in a few months. And none of it would have happened if it weren’t for Quentin, who had nothing to gain but still referred Ned to his friend, and if Peter doesn’t say it now he never will. 

So he pulls back enough to catch Quentin’s eye, smiles, and says, clearly and sincerely, “I love you.” 

In his imagination, Quentin has reacted in every way including laugh at him, but reality is much, much sweeter. 

Quentin brushes a hand along the side of Peter’s face, a gentle caress, and whispers, “Oh babe… I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this update took so much longer than expected! I promise to bring you chapter 5 within the week to make up for it :)


	5. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an apology for the unplanned hiatus, here's another update within the span of a week! Caution, though, some links are NSFW.

Unpacking in his dorm room at Hartley Hall takes Peter a grand total of fourteen minutes. 

His space isn’t big, just a long rectangle that holds a bed on one side plus a desk and a wardrobe on the other, so he’s quickly found places for his clothes, textbooks, notepads, pencils and toiletries. 

The only thing that takes him longer is the framed print Quentin gave him last night: colored in bright blue and orange hues, the picture shows [subatomic particle tracks](https://fineartamerica.com/featured/3-particle-tracks-patrice-loiez-cern.html) from the particle accelerator at CERN. If Quentin hadn’t been aware that Peter is a nerd before then, he would have after, since Peter immediately recognized the image for what it was. 

“I knew you’d like it,” Quentin said as soon as Peter had stopped thanking him. “I wanted you to have something to remind you of me when you’re over there.”

At least that’s his official line. Peter thinks it’s one of these random nice things that Quentin does for him, then tries to rationalize in a way that doesn’t expose him as the doting partner that Peter knows and loves. 

Besides, he really doesn’t need a reminder, as he finds out over the course of his first month at university, not with how often they text throughout any given day. Peter started during orientation when he was feeling overwhelmed and just wanted someone to complain to, then offered to stop a week later. 

“Don’t,” Quentin told him. “I like knowing what’s going on, babe. Makes me feel closer to you.”

So he keeps it up, never expecting the same in return cause Quentin’s schedule has become crazy as he’s approaching the hot phase of his applied neurotechnology degree. Peter doesn’t even see him much whenever he’s at Stark Industries during the week or on weekends – and damn, he’s really starting to grow jealous of co-ops that do alternate semesters instead of part-time work schedules for their students; financially it wouldn’t change anything about his situation, he’d still need financial aid and partial scholarships, but at least he wouldn’t have to plan his schedule around… working at the best engineering firm in the company. Which is paying him for his labor. 

_Yeah, Parker, you really got a reason to whine._

Anyway, Quentin’s temporal constraints make the evenings and nights they do share all the more precious. 

To celebrate Peter surviving his first month, they’re planning a trip to the Pleasure Chest in the Village. Ever since foregoing condoms, Peter has found the difference in intensity quite awesome. 

“You’ve uncovered my master plan,” Quentin teases him when he gushes about it in a post-coital haze, “I’m gonna ruin you for all other men so you’ll be mine forever.”

The weight of his statement doesn’t hit Peter until he’s made it back to his dorm afterwards, but when it does, it sends his pulse fluttering. 

_Forever._

He thinks he likes the sound of that. 

But anyway. _Pleasure Chest._

While Peter resigns himself to simply keep blushing throughout their stay at the shop, Quentin enters as if he owns the place, leading him straight to a display of cock rings. 

“These are the ones I mentioned, babe. Look, this one vibrates. It’s even got a remote.”

“Why would anyone want a…” 

Peter trails off when his mind supplies a mental image of him straddling Quentin on the couch while Quentin plays with the controls of the ring. 

_Hell yeah_, he could get into that. 

Quentin selects a blue one with a smirk. 

When they leave the shop about an hour later, Peter is half-hard and eager to get to Quentin’s flat. The cab ride is made all the more excruciating due to the sleek paper bag sitting on the bench between them and Peter’s knowledge of what’s inside. 

There’s no way they’re gonna try out everything today, but just thinking of each of the items sends a thrill of anticipation down Peter’s spine. 

He never thought sex could be as adventurous as porn made it out to be – or maybe he just got incredibly lucky to find a partner who’s interested in trying new things, while still putting Peter’s pleasure first. 

That’s why they start with their first purchase. It’s a bit of a challenge to fit his cock through the [elastic blue silicone ring with two vibrating parts](https://dildoking.de/de/beauments-flexxio-vibrator-blau-akku-power.html) cause he’s way too aroused already, but when he finally does and Quentin rewards him with a few experimental strokes, he immediately notices the difference. 

“Good?” Quentin asks. 

Peter nods even as he feels his cock hardening more than he can remember. It’s gonna take him longer to come, too, but make his ultimate orgasm way more intense, according to Quentin, who’s retrieved the lube from underneath the coffee table.

He makes quick work of preparing Peter, then switches on the cock ring and – 

“Fuck,” Peter gasps, cause holy shit, that’s… 

“I wanna hear you, babe,” Quentin says as he lines himself up, then pushes in. 

Good thing, too, since Peter couldn’t have kept quiet if he wanted to. He doesn’t know what to focus on – the cock filling him up, the sensation at the base of his own erection, the way Quentin’s hands are pinning his wrists against the sofa or the guttural sounds Quentin’s making as thrusts into him.

Peter would love to touch, to move at all, but at the same time he’s too overwhelmed to form much of a thought, let alone do something as complicated as time the roll of his hips to match Quentin’s. 

“So good, babe, god, you’re gorgeous,” Quentin gasps, and then he’s maneuvering them, pulling him upright so Quentin can fuck into him with even more vigor while the cock ring’s vibrations change to be farther apart. “I’m gonna fill you up, babe, fill you up real good, and then I’m gonna hold it all in with the plug, how’s that sound, babe, you wanna feel my come inside you while I’m fucking you with the plug?”

Peter would have come right then and there from the rough arousal in Quentin’s voice alone, but it’s impossible with the cock ring restricting his blood flow. As is, the intense wave of pleasure simply washes over him, and he can feel Quentin’s thrusts grow more and more erratic until he stills completely, biting down on Peter’s shoulder to muffle his moan. 

He senses it, too, so faint that it could just be his imagination, but in his mind Peter sees it clearly, Quentin holding onto him until the last aftershocks have abated.

Then the ring vibrates against the base of his cock once again, and Peter can’t hold still any more. 

Quentin blinks out of his haze. He quickly switches off the ring before he reaches towards where they left their purchases on the coffee table. The butt plug has been patiently sitting there, cleaned and ready for use and looking somewhat imposing. 

“It’ll be fine,” Quentin says when he catches Peter’s dubious expression. “Relax babe, hang on, I’m gonna…”

Peter feels Quentin pulling out and almost whines at the sudden loss, but then he’s on his back and the head of something firm and lube-slicked is pressing against his hole. 

“Tell me when you’re ready, babe.”

Peter waits another moment before he gives a curt nod. 

He moans, then keens when he feels Quentin’s hand on his cock and tries to fuck up into the grip, but Quentin’s shaking his head. 

“I’m gonna make you come just from this, babe, just the plug and the ring, see…”

Peter shouts when, at the same time that Quentin jacks up the vibration setting on the ring, he changes the angle of the plug and _holy shit_, if Peter doesn’t get to come within the next five seconds, he seriously thinks he’s gonna die – 

“Gawd, you should see yourself, babe, you’re so beautiful, next we gotta do this on the bed so you’ll be able to watch, damn…”

The praise goes straight to Peter’s cock, and that’s it, at last, the push that takes him over the edge.

His climax hits him with the force of an oncoming train, punching the air right out of him as he spills himself all over his stomach and chest. When Peter manages to open his eyes again, Quentin’s still drinking in the sight of him, both remotes forgotten in his hands. 

“Please,” Peter manages, since the vibrating is veering into painful now that he’s over the threshold, but it’s still a moment before Quentin catches himself and switches it off. 

Thankfully, he removes the ring along with the plug, since Peter doubts he would have had much success himself. Both toys go on the coffee table for cleaning, but Quentin stays on the sofa, tracing the rim of Peter’s ass with his fingers. 

“There,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything, and for a second Peter is horrified at the sensation of fluid leaking… but oh, right, it’s Quentin’s come. 

_Quentin’s come_, which he’s scooping up with his fingertips and mixing with the drying traces of Peter’s release on his front. He doesn’t know whether to be disgusted or turned on, yet his body’s too exhausted for either. 

Quentin’s face is smooth and relaxed, obviously deriving pleasure from seeing Peter so debauched, so it’s probably – 

“Hm,” Quentin says all of a sudden, interrupting Peter’s train of thought. 

“What?”

“Oh, it’s… it’s nothing, babe.”

But Quentin’s expression has changed and Peter knows how his boyfriend looks when something’s bothering him, so he keeps pressing. He even follows Quentin into the bathroom to clean up, cause “you can be honest with me,” he says, “whatever it is.”

Quentin passes him the damp cloth but doesn’t release it when Peter takes it from him. 

“Promise me you won’t be mad, babe?”

“Why would I… Yeah. I promise.”

Seconds tick by. Quentin lets go of the cloth, takes a deep breath, and turns an inscrutable gaze on Peter – no, his chest and stomach. 

“It’s, well… Babe, you’ve been letting yourself go a bit. Wouldn’t you say?”

Peter doesn’t quite get it, so Quentin steps closer and trails a hand down his front, past his pecs and his abs… which are a lot less defined than they were at the end of senior year. 

“Oh…”

“It’s completely understandable, babe, you’re not doing gymnastics two or three times a week any more, of course you’re gonna grow a little… soft.”

Peter didn’t even notice. He’s been so wrapped up in the novelty of college and co-op life that he barely spared a thought to his physical appearance. Besides, what does it matter? 

“It’s fine, babe,” Quentin says, “I love you no matter what, alright?”

The tension that was building in Peter’s chest unfurls again. “I… yeah…”

“Hey, but if you wanna get back into a fitness regiment, why don’t you join me in the morning? Doesn’t Hartley Hall have a gym?”

“Uh… maybe?” 

To be honest, Peter hasn’t checked. He’s glad he manages to find (and use) the laundry room. 

“It would almost be like training together, babe,” Quentin says, taking the cloth off him and starting to wash the by now definitely dried come off his front. “We’ll set goals together, we’ll start together, and afterwards we can swap stats. It’s gonna be fun, don’t you think?”

Given he vividly remembers a distinct lack of fun the one and only time they exercised together back at Quentin’s place, Peter’s first instinct is to decline… but Quentin has a point. If he keeps slacking off, the freshman fifteen are gonna be a real thing.

So he agrees, and watches Quentin set the alarm for Sunday morning.

*

It’s a lot easier to get up at the break of dawn when Peter doesn’t have to do it alone. Without Quentin to tease him awake, Peter needs serious willpower to stop hitting the snooze button. 

He’s still grumpy as heck when he makes it to the gym in Hartley Hall (nothing fancy but sufficient) yet fortunately, the other students have learned from experience and are giving him a wide berth. 

A look at the fitness watch Quentin gave him to better coordinate their workouts shows him that his boyfriend is already in the middle of his warm-up, so Peter finishes his stretches and hops on the treadmill furthest away from everyone else. 

If his new routine weren’t paying off, he’d genuinely consider stopping, but he has to admit he feels better and has more energy… plus, the way Quentin’s appreciative gaze rakes over his body is a pretty good motivator, too. Sure, he’d wish for Quentin to be a little less competitive, but well, then he wouldn’t be the guy Peter fell in love with, would he?

Also, hitting his targets comes with awesome rewards: after Peter managed fifty push-ups in a row without falling on his face, Quentin dragged him back to bed and spent the next hour playing with the prostate massager until Peter was hoarse from pleasure. 

And when he ran his first mile in under ten minutes, Quentin sent him to class wearing a… well, Peter can’t really describe it in a single word. 

It looks like a [plug made out of two balls](https://www.funfactory.com/de/anal-toys/b-balls-duo/), but inside each sphere is a rotating ball that shifts every time you move. They bought it because it came highly recommended by the _Pleasure Chest_ employee, yet nothing could have prepared Peter for the actual sensation. 

“How’s it feel, babe?” Quentin asks, still fondling his ass. 

Peter rises from the kneeling position on the sofa and – fuck. 

“It’s… It’s like you’re inside me,” he says. He’s not even lying. 

Quentin’s eyes gleam in the morning SkyLight. 

He doesn’t remember much of his Introduction to Mechatronics class that day, not with how aroused he was throughout, both from the plug and from Quentin texting him. But he will forever remember Quentin showing up during his lunch break and dragging him back to his – blessedly empty – dorm room. 

“If he’d been here, we could’ve asked your roommate to join,” Quentin says while they’re getting dressed again. “From what you told me, he seems like a chill guy.”

The suggestion throws Peter for a loop. It must show on his face (and the fact that he’s frozen with his pants halfway up his thighs might also be a clue) since Quentin keeps talking. 

“Think about it, babe… You, me, and someone else… just there for our pleasure.”

His voice has taken on that deep, rumbly tone it does whenever Quentin’s truly into something and wants Peter to know it, and usually that’s reason enough for Peter to be at least curious. Yet in this instance, his reluctance stops any sounds of agreement in their tracks. 

“Babe? Not a fan?”

“I…” Peter pauses. The mental image of someone else in bed with them, even just for one night, doesn’t seem to want to exist inside his head. He can’t quite put his finger on why, though, so he says, “I don’t know… Not really? Sorry.” 

Quentin’s already shaking his head. “Forget I asked, babe,”

And Peter does, relieved. 

Until Quentin brings it up again, at the end of November. 

They haven’t seen each other in a week due to Quentin’s work load and several deadlines for his Masters, which coincided with deadlines for Peter’s courses. Yet all of those are over as of 11:59 AM, so they decide to spend their Sunday afternoon in bed together. 

This means they finally have time to try out the last item from their shopping spree: a buttplug/cockring combination, of which the former can’t be removed without taking off the latter first. 

Peter is on all fours, trying his best not to apply even the tiniest bit of friction to his erection since Quentin asked him to wait, but it’s difficult when most of his attention is focused on Quentin’s cock in his mouth. 

He still loves every second of this as much as he did when he first blew him, but this whole orgasm denial aspect… not sure it’s his thing. Which he’ll only know once he’s tried it, and he committed to this so he’s gonna see it through. 

The sounds Quentin is making aren’t helping in the slightest, though, especially when he looks at their reflection in the mirror. 

“Gawd, babe, look at you, so hot on your knees for me, damn, your mouth, babe, oh yeah, right there, fuck,” Quentin gasps when Peter tongues the slit of his clock. Watching himself hasn’t grown on him, but watching Quentin come apart under his ministrations only gets better with time, he has found. 

“Cant your hips a bit, babe, yeah, I wanna see – damn, looks so pretty in your ass, you feeling full enough, babe?”

Peter moans around his cock and clenches his ass for good measure, then immediately regrets it when his movement makes the connective piece tug on the cock ring.

“Oh yeah, you love it, right babe, you’re enjoying this so much… and that’s only a plug, a piece of silicone. Imagine a cock inside you, a real one, someone else pounding into you while you’re choking on my cock, oh fuck…”

Peter completely fails to recognize the signs of Quentin’s impending orgasm cause his mind’s still stuck on Quentin’s words. The resulting coughing is not sexy in the slightest, but Peter has other things on his mind right now, like the fact that his erection has flagged to a point where the ring is no longer painful and he can shuffle backwards and off the bed without too much trouble. 

Quentin tries to grab him but his fingers close around air. A flash of irritation ghosts across his features before he takes in the state of Peter’s erection.

Or lack thereof. 

He’s never seen Quentin’s expression crumble this fast. 

“Oh babe, I’m sorry, I never meant – I didn’t say it to pressure you, it just slipped out. I never want you to do anything you don’t wanna do, I swear.”

“Then stop bringing it up,” Peter snaps. 

He regrets it a split-second later cause Quentin actually twitches. 

Yet before he can apologize, Quentin manages to pull himself together, raising a soothing hand. “I know, I know, and I’m sorry. Come on, let me finish you off, babe. It’s the least I can do.” 

Reluctantly, Peter steps towards the edge of the mattress where Quentin sits, flaccid cock still glistening with saliva and semen. 

Peter accepts the unspoken invitation and straddles him, granting Quentin access to both his cock and his ass that’s still holding the plug. Quentin rotates it, gently at first until Peter begins to harden in his other hand. 

He picks up the pace then, building up to a punishing rhythm that leaves Peter no choice but to cling to Quentin’s shoulders. By the time it’s over, Peter thinks he must have left crescent-shaped marks on Quentin’s skin.

Later, once they’re cleaned up and cuddling, Peter can’t keep his curiosity at bay.

“Why’re you... I mean – why d’you like the thought so much? Of us with…” he asks, cause he hasn’t been able to stop wondering since his post-coital haze cleared, and he simply needs to know. 

Quentin exhales at length against his back. 

“It’s not for me, babe. It’s for you.”

Peter turns so fast he almost dislodges Quentin’s arm, but he can’t handle this conversation without eye contact. 

Quentin meets his gaze with unflinching sincerity. “I’m the only person you’ve ever slept with, babe, and I’m honored, seriously... but I don’t want you to get bored. I wanna show you everything, babe, and threesomes can be wonderful if you’ve got the right partners...”

Peter has no idea what to say to that, except for that he’s so far from bored he might as well be in a parallel universe, but Quentin doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer just now.

“Yeah, I guess I should’ve led with that,” he says, taking Peter’s hand in his. “Please forgive me.” 

“Of course,” Peter says without hesitation, and is rewarded with the kind of Quentin’s smiles that still makes his heart beat faster. “And I… I’m not bored, you know.”

Quentin brings a hand up to caress his cheek but stays quiet. 

It must have been sufficient to soothe his concerns, though, cause he doesn’t suggest a threesome for the rest of November. Doesn’t suggest much of anything, in fact, cause there’s simply no time in their schedule. Peter barely even finds the chance to Skype Ned or go for dinner with May. 

December is looking to be even more hectic due to the looming holiday season as well as crazy snow falls. At least the latter mean Peter finally gets to wear his coziest hoodies, which –

“What’s that.”

Quentin’s tone is flat, like it wasn’t a question. 

Peter follows his boyfriend’s gaze down to the front of his hoodie. It’s too big on him, but May figured he’ll fill it out eventually, and besides, the [‘Weapons of math destruction’](https://www.spreadshirt.com/shop/design/math+weapon+quote+school+student+present+womens+premium+hoodie-D5d40f2de162c5f031060241a?sellable=1n1Eq4j1n9UOEa7lRJAZ-444-23&view=D1) print will never get old. 

Yet based on his boyfriend’s arched brow, Quentin doesn’t approve. 

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Babe,” Quentin says and lifts his gaze from the garment, “it’s much too big for you. Look, your shoulders are here, but the seam’s all the way down your arm.”

“I’ll grow into it.”

“Before you’re too old for cheap puns?”

Peter likes to think one is never too old for cheap puns, but maybe Quentin’s got a point. After all, he was right about fitted shirts looking way better on him than those off the rack, and the fabric feels so soft that Peter doesn’t even regret letting Quentin spend so much money on his wardrobe. 

That’s why he goes along when Quentin drags him from boutique store to boutique store on the only Saturday they both have free before Christmas and diligently tries on every item of clothing Quentin asks him to. 

Most are indeed awesome, like cotton sweaters in different colors or the button-down shirts that go underneath. Some suck, like the wool peacoat that Quentin says looks so great on him. 

“It itches,” Peter complains, trying to find a way to hold his head that won’t let the collar chafe against his neck.

“You’ll never wear it without a scarf anyway, babe,” Quentin says. “You’ll freeze without it.”

The one scarf he owns – courtesy of Quentin – and barely wears since the feel of it against his throat all day is way too confining for his taste, doesn’t go with the peacoat at all.

When he says as much, Quentin’s reply is an indulgent ‘Oh babe’ look as well as, “A man needs more than one scarf in his wardrobe. Come on, babe. We’ll find one that you love.” 

The challenging glint in Quentin’s eyes is hard to resist, so Peter agrees to try every single scarf that Quentin thinks will suit him, all of which feel just as uncomfortable around his throat as they have all his life. 

Except for one. 

“Ohhhh,” Peter says when something incredibly soft slides over his face and settles around his neck. He turns around so Quentin can arrange the fabric the way it’s intended (a skill Peter has yet to master), then glances down at… the most beautiful scarf he has ever seen. 

It’s a shade of blue unlike any other, deep and vibrant at the same time, and gawd, it feels divine on his skin. 

Quentin’s wearing his ‘I told you so’ smirk but says nothing, just watches while Peter tries to stop himself from petting the scarf like he would a particularly fluffy puppy. 

He finally manages by checking the tag, but in retrospect that was a mistake cause shit, how can a piece of cloth be so expensive?

By now, Quentin recognizes his shocked-by-prices expression for what it is and usually just shakes his head fondly, but even he blinks at the sum they want for the scarf.

Peter reluctantly takes it off again and starts looking for where Quentin got it from. 

“Not to your liking either, sir?” the shop assistant asks, his tone a lot less polite than it was twenty minutes ago, and Peter’s about to apologize when Quentin snatches the item out of his hands. 

“It’s perfect. Just what we’re looking for.”

“Wha– but it’s…”

Quentin interrupts him with a peck on the lips. “Consider it an early Christmas present, babe.”

“It’s – that’s too much, you can’t…”

“I can and I will. Anything to make you happy. You deserve the best.”

Peter’s still overwhelmed when they exit the shop, but by the time they make it to bed that night, he thinks he’s got a handle on it. Riding Quentin while wearing nothing but the scarf definitely helped. 

It’s not until three days later that Peter realizes in a flash of panic that he still needs to find a present for Quentin. 

May’s suggestions are of no use at all (special coffee beans, or socks of all things) and while Ned at least goes so far as to consult online sources, his definition of ‘awesome’ and Quentin’s decidedly do not match when it comes to gift giving. 

Five days till Christmas Day, Peter is about to admit defeat when Quentin cancels their dinner plans on him due to a work emergency (grumbling something about useless coworkers) and spends the time browsing blogs instead. That’s where he discovers a [coaster set](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JV8UIN6/?tag=dodoboyfriend-20) with radioactive elements that light up when you place a beverage on them. 

It’s not ideal, but it’s a start. And within Peter’s budget. 

They arrive before his boyfriend emerges from whatever crisis management he was involved in, meaning the next time they see each other is on the day of the Stark Industries holiday party.

Or, well, the night of, cause Quentin doesn’t make it home until the time they agreed to leave.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Quentin says into their greeting kiss and takes Peter’s hands away from his belt buckle. “I’d love to, I really would, but I still gotta shower and you can’t ruin that shirt, damn those fucking useless…” Quentin stops himself, then takes a deep breath. Peter has never seen him this frayed around the edges but isn’t surprised to discover he hates it. 

He checks and double-checks they have everything, quickly cleans a stray speck of dust off Quentin’s leather shoes and ends up fumbling with the collar of his pristine button down Quentin said he should wear cause it would match the blazer of Quentin’s suit.

“One button undone, babe, not two,” Quentin says, and it takes Peter a second to make sense of his words since the sight of Quentin, hair damp and every single bit of skin exposed to the air, completely derails the blood flow to his brain. 

“Babe, come on, we gotta go, chop chop.”

“Sorry,” Peter says, giving Quentin his most lascivious grin. It has the intended effect, cause his boyfriend pauses in buttoning up his dress pants to smile back at him. 

Until Peter grabs the fancy dress shoes Quentin got him. 

“No, babe, the other pair.”

“Uh.” Peter glances from the black leather shoes he’s holding to the identical pair (right down to the _brand_) in the part of Quentin’s closet he’s come to think of as his. “Why?”

“You’ll want the suede sole for dancing tonight. Those,” Quentin points to the pair in Peter’s hands, “are rubber.”

Peter still doesn’t move, cause… “Dancing?”

Quentin freezes, halfway through buttoning his shirt. “Yes?”

“But I can’t dance.”

“What?”

Peter shrugs and feels his face heat, even as he diligently exchanges his dress shoes for the apparently correct pair. “Never learned how.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Well, I didn’t think there’d be dancing! Or that you’d wanna dance, you never told me –”

“It’s an office holiday party, Peter,” Quentin says, stepping closer, “of course there’s gonna be dancing, and I had intended for you to be at my side, no, I need you by my side. Everyone knows I’m seeing someone and they’re desperate to find out who it is. I will not have you embarrass us on the dance floor.”

“Can’t we just, you know…” Peter trails off into a sort of sideways shuffle he’s seen guys do in movies, but if Quentin’s expression is anything to go by, he makes it look even more ridiculous than it did on screen. “Or not? Not dance?”

“And have everyone believe we’re two uncultured men who can’t even do a simple two-step?”

Peter wants to point out that one’s ability to dance has nothing to do with sophistication, but Quentin isn’t done. 

“We’re taking lessons. First week of January, we’re going to find a dance class.”

“Oh yeah, cause we’ve got so much spare time,” Peter snorts, which only makes Quentin frown harder. 

“So you wanna embarrass me, babe? In front of my coworkers and bosses? That what you want?”

“Wha– no!” Peter says, and he reaches out to put a soothing hand on Quentin’s arm, which is shrugged off immediately. “I just – they won’t care! I’m sure Dimitri doesn’t know how to dance, either.”

“Dimitri’s in Maintenance, babe,” Quentin says with a sneer, “he doesn’t need to impress anyone. My career, on the other hand, depends on the higher-ups at Stark Industries seeing me as a well-rounded asset for the company.”

“You are! You’re one of their best engineers, and that’s including Tony Stark,” Peter says, moving forward again. “And I’m sure everyone sees that. So you, uh, you don’t need to be nervous.”

“I’m not,” Quentin says, sidestepping Peter’s second attempt to touch him. “You’re the one who won’t take dance classes for his boyfriend.”

“I never said –”

“For someone who wrote that life is perpetual learning in his college essay, you’re pretty damn close-minded. Trying something new –” 

“What’s that got to do with –” Peter tries, but Quentin simply talks over him at higher volume. 

“Trying something new won’t kill you, babe.”

“I… I’m always up to try…” 

Peter trails off, cause while that’s technically true, there’s still one incident where it doesn’t apply. He has to fight to keep himself from raising his voice cause _what the hell_, he thought they’d moved past that. 

“Yes,” Quentin says, “always up to try new things, eh, babe?” 

His eyes drop to Peter’s collar. Peter’s hand jumps to the second button, only to find it somehow got undone again. 

When he makes to close it, however, Quentin’s already there, fingers fumbling for the button.

“I don’t get why this is such a big deal for you, babe,” he says, then runs his hands down Peter’s front to smooth the fabric. “Venturing out of your comfort zone won’t hurt.”

If Quentin’s talking about dancing or the threesome, Peter’s not sure. 

“I…” 

He swallows. The anger in Quentin’s eyes stings. 

“I’ll think about it,” is what he settles on. 

Seeing Quentin’s expression mellow, even just slightly, is a relief. Too bad it doesn’t erase the tension between them, even when Quentin pulls him close and whispers a “Thank you” in his hair.

“I love you,” Peter says into the fabric of Quentin’s shirt, tightening his grip. 

There’s only a second’s hesitation before Quentin says, “Love you, too, babe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pro writing tip: keep a list of what sex toys your characters have tried in which chapter to prevent last-minute re-writes after noticing a redundancy. 
> 
> Also, gahhh, aren't the subatomic particle tracks beautiful? 
> 
> Next up... *drum roll*... Tony's chapter! Which will probably follow next Tuesday ;)


	6. six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ENTER TONY! I’m giddy with excitement about sharing this chapter with you all! 
> 
> Please note that Pepper isn’t shown in the best light in this fic. I personally think this version of her is rooted in canon, but just to be on the safe side, consider yourselves warned.
> 
> Special thanks to the Pacing Police, aka merlenhiver, for curbing my self-indulgent tendencies when they threatened to lead this chapter astray xD

“Sir?”

Tony doesn’t lift his eyes from the artificial knee joint, or rather from the magnifying lens positioned over said artificial knee joint, given that the components he’s working with are too small for even his eyes to see –

“Mr. Stark.”

And besides, he’s almost done, just one more… 

“Mr. Stark, sir,” says the voice again, this time a lot less patient. 

Tony finally raises his head to meet Carol Danvers’ eyes. “Yes, Colonel?” 

Not that she’s a Colonel anymore, not with her medical discharge and all, but the way she’s been handling his schedule and affairs sure as hell never lets him forget about her background. And no, the twinge of pain the title sends through his chest won’t keep him from teasing her. Which reminds him of –

“Never mind,” he says with a wave of the hand that’s still holding the miniature soldering iron. “I need you to get Barnes down here asap; fixed the inexplicable grinding noise he complained about and figured why not check the entire thing over while I’m at it, so I got some suggestions and –”

“Drink this,” Carol says, successfully interrupting today’s explanation of why he is the smartest mind in engineering this century has seen and replacing the whisky tumbler at his elbow with a pint-sized glass full of smooth green liquid.

Tony blinks at it. 

Then at the wall opposite the workshop table he’s set up shop at today, cause it holds the only clock in the place that isn’t a projection and thus can’t be manipulated by any increasingly rogue AIs. It’s the same ugly, mechanic clock that Rhodey won at a fair during their MIT days that Tony hates and loves in equal fashion. 

“I’m missing something, aren’t I,” he says when the information that it’s past 6 pm doesn’t trigger anything in his brain. 

“Several things, sir.” 

Carol’s tone may be drier than the Afghan desert, but the corners of her eyes are creasing in that way they do whenever she’s trying not to let on how amused she is by him. 

“Doesn’t matter when you just fixed the thing that’s gonna give amputees their freedom back.”

“It does when you’re running late to your own party, sir.”

Shit. 

At least that explains why Carol’s wearing her finest suit today.

“Now drink up and make a note for Mr. Barnes to read tomorrow morning.”

Tony does, minus the note cause who’s he kidding, Bucky told him to get him the second he solves this, which is why Tony makes a detour on his way to Pepper and his penthouse to knock on the guy’s door. 

He even gets as far as to explain where Bucky messed up before Carol tracks him down. 

She exits the elevator down the hallway just as Bucky grumbles something along the lines of “I wanna see you churn out fifty of these fuckers without screwing one up,” to which the only legitimate response is “Challenge accepted!”

“I’ll put it in your calendar for tomorrow, sir,” she says without missing a beat, then proceeds to drag him off while Bucky sniggers in their wake. 

Tony’s starting to regret the whole ‘offering Barnes a place to live’ thing.

Pepper is already gone (since she’s physically incapable of being late to anything, least of all her company’s own holiday party), so it’s up to Carol to choose options for him to wear tonight after he’s showered and dried off. 

He throws on the oldest of the supplied suits without thinking too much about it cause it’s the least stifling of the selection (certainly coordinated to match whatever dress Pepper’s currently wearing) and downs another few fingers of the good stuff before he’s forced to switch to eggnog or, the gods forbid, _soft drinks_, cause no matter how little he drinks, it’s always gonna be too much in Pepper’s eyes and –

“Sir.”

Carol’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts just in time to brace for the onslaught of voices and music, approachable smile in place and charm turned to eleven. 

As per tradition, the annual Stark Industries holiday party takes place on the floor of R&D that Tony specifically designed to be versatile, providing several hundred square feet of open-floor layout after removing all partitions. 

Granted, he intended it to be used for test-driving rather than hosting events to boost company morale, but any room in a storm, or however the saying goes. It’s only the third time they’re doing this, but Pepper’s new approach to secure the industry’s highest retention rates is certainly doing its trick. Without her by his side, Tony wouldn’t have made it a single year after Afghanistan, let alone taken his father’s company to record highs. 

He finds the woman in question laughing with a group from Marketing and promptly swipes an eggnog from a passing waiter. As brilliant as Rogers turned out to be (to everyone’s surprise but Tony’s since he trusts Shuri’s judgement more than his own most days), his sincere, do-gooder attitude and general top model looks never fail to remind Tony of his many, many shortcomings. 

Of course it’s Rogers who spots Tony first and turns a smile full of those stupidly perfect teeth onto him. 

Pepper follows suit, yet her smile falters a little when she takes in his wardrobe choices.

“The Prada, Tony? I was hoping you’d wear the Gucci,” she whispers against his ear after giving him a quick kiss hello.

He winces. “I can still change?”

“Don’t be silly. Here, you remember Steve from Marketing?”

“Would be difficult not to,” Tony mumbles under his breath, but thankfully no one seems to hear, not even Pepper, who proceeds to drag him around the room to indulge in his favorite pastime… _mingle_. 

Tony figures he deserves at least one eggnog for every brown-nosing employee he interacts with, and a glass of champagne for every member of management he’s subjected to. 

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” 

Pepper always phrases it like a question, which is peculiar since it’s never intended as such. It’s code for ‘Put that glass down now, mister’ and Tony obeys as quickly as he can without calling attention to himself. 

It’s not like he doesn’t have a private mini bar in his penthouse, after all. 

For most of the hour that follows, he doesn’t think he’ll need to raid it, however. He’s long since mastered the art of covert drinking, even before a group of terrorists kidnapped him and he almost died several times… but his PA is a sneaky ex-military ninja whose allegiances lie somewhere between Tony’s best interests and not giving Pepper a reason to fire her – anyway. 

Long story short, even Carol starts taking glasses from him, leaving him stuck with water (_water!_) at the edge of the dance floor while he waits for Pepper to return from the rest room so he can take her for a spin. Or rather, so she can take him for a spin, cause as good as his parents made sure he is at dancing, his heart’s never been in it. 

It’s then that he catches sight of Quentin Beck, that gifted engineer pursuing a Masters in applied neurotechnology while working full-time, whom Tony believed to be an absolute workaholic with no private life whatsoever, since it’s already a challenge for Tony to complete a doctorate while running a company, so for mere mortals doing an MA should be… 

Tony loses his train of thought when Beck actually braves the dance floor. He’s with some twink who looks barely legal and certainly not old enough for anything other than the lemonade he’s set down on a nearby table. 

It becomes evident within a few moments that Beck’s date has no education in ballroom dance whatsoever, but he makes up for his lack in ability with enthusiasm. Beck’s critical frown soon breaks in response and the hard line of his shoulders relaxes. 

One song later, Tony would go as far as to describe Beck’s expression as happy, in love even, and Tony finds himself wishing for Pepper to turn that appreciation on him every once in a quarter. 

No. Therein lies madness.

He quickly turns away from the dance floor. 

Besides, part of what he likes about Pepper is her somewhat aloof approach to emotional topics. It comes so easy to her, Tony has found, not without a surge of jealousy. He doubts Howard would have had to tell Pepper to ‘get a fucking grip, princess’. 

Mood thoroughly ruined, Tony snags another flute of champagne, then seeks a quiet corner where he can pull up some specs without drawing too much attention to himself. 

It’s been three years since a miniature fission reactor moved into his chest, two since he invented a new element to power it without poisoning himself, and he _still_ can’t figure out a way to mass-produce the stuff. 

One would think a mind such as his would solve this within a year, eighteen months tops, but no, regardless of what he comes up with, it’s still too fucking expensive to be commercially viable for the average consumer. Even if he volunteered his time, the material costs alone are enough to –

“There you are.”

Tony saves his progress and looks up immediately.

Pepper’s wearing that fond, indulgent expression that promises a frisky night but means she’s not truly mad, so he relaxes. 

“I guess it’s time we leave our employees to enjoy themselves without their bosses in the room,” she says, coming closer and placing her arm on Tony’s lower back. “You ready to go?”

In reply, Tony pockets his phone and offers his sincerest grin.

Once back upstairs, Pepper disappears to put away her dress and accessories. Tony pours himself another drink while popping the buttons of his shirt. 

When he finally makes it to the bedroom, there’s something waiting for him on the mattress: a parcel, black with white ribbon that gives way easily when Tony pulls at it.

He pauses before lifting the lid, equal parts aroused and nervous. 

“It’s technically for me,” Pepper says, emerging from the ensuite wearing nothing but panties. The sight of her still takes Tony’s breath away. She mistakes his reaction for confusion, so she clarifies, “For you to use on me.”

“Ngh, Pep, you know how I love making you feel good.”

“Then get to it, tiger,” she says with a wink and settles down on the bed. 

By now, Tony knows exactly what she likes, what she loves, and what will get her off multiple times a night. 

It never fails to fill him with bone-deep contentment to see her sated and happy in their bed, no matter what it takes to achieve it. Tony knows he’s not the ideal boyfriend, but in this area, he can meet her expectations. Exceed them, even. Having a girlfriend who’s a little bossy between the sheets is the stuff of porn, right? Tony’s one heck of a lucky guy. 

Too bad his actions outside the bedroom often go contrary to his thoughts on the matter. 

“I pulled last year’s delivery notes on the beverages for the upper floors,” Pepper says after dinner one day in January. “You said you’d cut back.”

“No, _you told me_ to cut back,” Tony snaps, then apologizes immediately when he realizes how bitchy that sounded before loading the last plates into the dishwasher. 

“You agreed,” Pepper says from the kitchen island, and Tony knows without looking that she has her arms crossed. “You agreed last summer. Just like you agreed to cut back on your hours, and who was in the lab at seven on New Year’s Day instead of in bed with their fiancé?”

“I had a break-through, Pep, I had to get it out before it was gone again –”

“We haven’t been engaged for two weeks and already you’re breaking your promises, Tony. Is that the man you want to be?”

Tony wants to be many things, including happily married to the love of his life, but the universe seems to have a strange sense of humor cause at the moment, it feels like he’s failing on every front. 

If Howard taught him anything, however, it’s to never give up, so he apologizes (again) and proves he’s a genius once more by installing a protocol that will ask him “Are you sure?” every time he picks up his tablet outside of what Pepper deems ‘office hours’ or checks his email. 

It works better than anything he’s tried before, yet by the time Valentine’s Day rolls around, the fewer hours are taking their toll and Tony ends up missing their dinner reservations. Well, excuse him for caring about their bottom line enough to check on Barnes and actually lend a hand (or two, in his case) when one look tells him Bucky is drowning. 

“I don’t get it, don’t you have, I don’t know, interns?” Tony asks while running a diagnostic on one of the seventy-five artificial limbs that have to be shipped out by Sunday. Otherwise, Stark Medical would be in breach of contract, and that’s never fun for anyone involved. 

Bucky, who’s looking more zombie-like than usual, gives a humorless chuckle. “They all suck.”

“Really? Then who did the preliminary work on this? Cause I know your welding when I see it, man, and this ain’t it.”

“I borrowed Parker.” 

Tony waits, but isn’t sure why he still bothers since Bucky’s allergic to sentences that require more of him than simple statements. 

“Who’s that?” he prompts, and is shocked, to be honest, to see the corners of Bucky’s mouth curl. On anyone else, that would have been a grimace, but it counts as a smile on anti-social veterans who haven’t left the Tower since Tony let them move in. 

“One of them co-op students. Smart. Steady hands. Actually bothers to learn ASL.”

“So where’s he now?”

“Beck stole him.”

“Guess I’ll have to tell Bruce he’s gotta speed up the cloning project, sounds like we could use a few more of him.” 

Tony hopes to lighten the mood, yet all he gets is one of Bucky’s impressive glares so he decides to shut up and keep working instead. 

Pepper’s in Los Angeles until the afternoon, fortunately, or else he never would have been able to pull that all-nighter. He’s doing really well with remembering food up until lunch, even gets one of those salads Pepper wants him to eat more of, but then… 

Well, he can’t quite remember. 

One moment it’s two o’clock, the next it’s eight-thirty and a furious Pepper is pulling the prosthetic hip out of his hands. 

“I waited for an hour, Tony. A full hour!”

At the beginning of their relationship, he would have argued. Defended himself, made excuses… but neither he nor Pepper ever believed them anyway, so he saves his breath. 

“I – I’m sorry, Pep, I don’t know what happened…”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” she says, and damn, she’s beautiful when she’s angry. Also, scary. “You once again put your work ahead of your partner. I’m supposed to be your special someone, Tony, not your piece on the side that you fit in whenever there’s room in your schedule.”

“I, I understand what might give you this impression, dear,” he tries, only to be cut off by a single look.

“You’re sleeping on the couch tonight,” are her last words before she leaves in a _clack-clack-clack_ of heels and fury. 

Tony releases an audible breath, then chances a glance at Bucky. 

“How much of that did you catch?”

Bucky shrugs. “She’s a pretty good enunciator.”  
_Damn._

“Wanna go after her?”

Tony considers, but shakes his head. “I’d only be making it worse. Tell you what, I’ll get us some grub, then we’ll plow through another few of these, okay?”

“Only if it’s –”

“Dumplings, I know, I know, I do remember some things, Barnes.”

“Just not how to set an alarm for Valentine’s dinner.”

Tony reacts in the only appropriate way, namely by sticking out his tongue, which he immediately regrets when Bucky throws a nut straight at him. The US military sure missed out on one hell of a sniper with Barnes. 

Tony still doesn’t duck out of the lab quickly enough to pretend he didn’t hear Bucky’s “And bring me another few disks!” 

The rooms holding SI’s engineering supplies are several floors down and Tony’s genuinely tempted to see if he can’t save the trip by inventing a more durable item than the third-party emery-impregnated disks they’re using to polish the casing… until he actually walks a few steps and realizes how stiff he’s grown from bending over the worktable for hours on end. 

Choosing the stairs instead of the elevator has become second nature to him (“Ten thousand steps a day are recommended, Tony”) and also, the time it takes him to descend several flights of stairs is enough to send off their usual order to their favorite dumpling place in delivery distance. 

Or rather, tell JARVIS to do so, cause Pepper’s already mad at him, so it won’t make things worse if he indulges in 'robotic replacements for human interactions'. 

“Just you wait, J,” he murmurs. “You’ll grow on her.”

JARVIS doesn’t reply, which either means he’s laughing at Tony or that they’re not alone and could be overheard. 

Tony stops in his tracks and listens. Sure enough, there’s the unmistakable sound of footsteps and someone rummaging through shelves, looking for something. 

It’s way too intentional to be coming from a thief, so Tony’s body can calm the fuck down again, alright, no need for fight or flight, damn it. 

By the time he’s breathing steadily again, he hears a stifled grunt from around the corner and moves without a second thought. 

He doesn’t get a knight-in-shining-armor moment, though, cause his fellow late-night worker already managed to set down a veritable tower of large boxes on the floor in front of the shelf holding screws. 

“You know you gotta put those back exactly where you found them,” Tony says, startling the guy into an upright position. “You wouldn’t wanna _screw up_ the order.”

The guy – young, twink-ish, in a well-worn Columbia hoodie and jeans – blinks at him for a moment and Tony resigns himself to another encounter with a decided lack of appreciation for his puns… but then the guy laughs. 

Short and surprised, but it’s a laugh. 

Tony smirks. 

Of course that’s when recognition hits.

“You’re Mr. Stark!” the kid says, “Shit, you’re here, and – of course you’re here, it’s your company – but it’s late and… Uh, sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Tony says easily, arching an eyebrow. “And you are?”

“Peter, sir. Peter Parker.”

Peter, Peter Parker holds out a nervous hand only to immediately withdraw it when he sees the streaks of grime on his palms and fingers. 

“Parker,” Tony repeats. Why’s that name ring a… “Bucky’s Parker?”

The guy’s eyes widen. “Mr. Barnes mentioned me to you, sir?”

“Hold your horses, kid,” Tony says but can’t quite keep his lips from curling at this show of unadulterated enthusiasm. “He just said you did the welding on the shipment that’s due in Capitol Hill on Monday.”

Parker nods. 

“You an intern?”

“A co-op student.”

“Ever heard of regular work hours?”

“Have you?” Parker counters without missing a beat. 

He looks horrified for a split-second until Tony laughs, then gives him a tentative smile. 

“Well, since you’re here, what’re you working on?” Tony asks, walking down the hallway to where they store the disks Bucky’s told him to get. “Anything pressing?”

“Uh, no, sir…”

“Good.” Tony rounds a corner, fully expecting the footsteps he hears following him. “Then consider yourself re-assigned. Whatever Beck stole you for can wait.” 

He’s bending down to fish out a couple of disks from the box so he doesn’t see Parker’s reaction, not that he needs to. As a rule of thumb, interns and co-op students are notoriously eager to satisfy everyone they work with.

So Tony says, voice loud enough to carry to wherever Parker stopped, “If he complains, tell him the order’s from the guy whose name is on the building. Huzzah!”

He emerges victorious from his quest for impregnated disks to find the kid gaping at him. 

“I get to… With you and Mr. Barnes…”

“I’ll let you know that taken out of context, that sentence just sounded way dirtier than anything I had in mind,” Tony quips, then winks and instructs Parker to put the screws back. “Once you’re done, join us in lab three, alright? Hey, you hungry?”

The kid blinks. 

“Barnes wanted dumplings, I’ll just order more, that guy can eat leftovers for days if he’s got the option. Lab three, kid.”

Tony wishes all his employees would react with such earnest “Yes, sir”s to his orders, but somehow there’s always varying amounts of sarcasm laced in those two syllables. He blames JARVIS, really. 

Of course Tony’s too distracted by mentally analyzing the discs to see whether or not redesigning them’s a viable option and doesn’t tell Bucky who he ran into, so when Parker shows up five minutes later, Barnes drops his rotary tool in surprise. 

Parker immediately dives to pick it up. “Sorry, Mr. Barnes, I – Mr. Stark found me working and asked me to help, I hope that’s alright?”

Barnes yanks the tool out of Parker’s grip with more force than necessary. “The fuck you doing here this late?”

“I, uh… I couldn’t sleep.”

Fun fact number one: Peter Parker is a shit liar. 

Fun fact number two: Bucky obviously agrees… but doesn’t call the kid on his bullshit.

Instead, he shows Parker what to do in order to prep the next prosthetic for Bucky’s polishing skills, and just generally… Well. Softens around the edges? 

Tony’s never seen Barnes in mentoring mode – didn’t think the guy had one, to be honest. But the evidence to the contrary is staring him right in the face. 

The intro session lasts until shortly after their food arrives and all three of them end up in the closest (and blessedly empty) employee lounge cause they should probably rehydrate at some point and there’s free soft drinks. 

When Tony watches Parker grab a lemonade, it triggers something in his mind. 

“Wait… aren’t you dating Beck?”

Parker startles, though not enough to lose his grip on the bottle. “Um… yeah? We’re not –it’s not affecting our performances at work, sir, I swear, and as long as that’s the case, Stark Industries’ bylaws state that –”

“I know what my own bylaws state, kid,” Tony says. “Besides, you think I’d be dating my own CEO without making sure it holds up in court?”

“Oh, yeah, of course you… I mean –”

“Can’t the fucking small talk wait till we’re working again?” Barnes interrupts with a very dramatic eye roll. 

Tony catches his drift immediately, yet isn’t able to contain a sarcastic, “But then you wouldn’t hear anything, buddy!” to which Bucky doesn’t deign to respond with anything beyond a glare. 

He fully expects Parker to think Tony’s serious about ignoring Bucky’s request, or simply seize the chance and hold a casual conversation with his boss’s boss…’s boss? Whatever. That’s not what happens: Parker simply shuts up and eats. 

Tony has to refrain from gaping. Either Parker respects Barnes so much he won’t go against his wishes even if it means missing out on a chat with _Tony Stark Himself_… or he’s… shy? 

Nah, there was nothing shy about his dancing at the Christmas party. 

Intimidated? Morally superior to the majority of sycophants Tony encounters on a daily basis? 

Without more data, he can’t answer that question. Fortunately for him, Barnes switches off his ears (his words, not Tony’s) the moment they’re back in the lab, leaving him free to figure out more about this intriguing co-op student.

Parker’s replies start out tentative, like he thinks Tony’s asking just to be polite, but gradually grow more and more similar to the deluge of words that Tony’s known to divulge from time to time. Or rather, when he’s overtired or in the rambling stage of drunkenness.

With Parker, it seems to be a nervous habit, or maybe just tied to how excited the kid gets – and seriously, how can anyone be this adorable when exalting the brilliance of StarkCAD?

“Alright, alright, you can stop sucking up to me, kid, I’m the first to call myself a genius.”

“I – I’m not… Sir, I didn’t say all that just to, to…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. _Jesus_, kid. You’ve been doing so well with sarcasm, don’t break your streak now.”

Parker blushes furiously, which doesn’t help with the whole adorableness, and looks like he’s about to apologize, but then his expression changes to one of puzzlement. 

“Don’t you consider yourself a genius?”

The question throws Tony for a loop. No one’s ever asked him this before, point blank like that. At least not with such a sincerely scandalized air. 

“Sure,” he says easily. “Everybody and their granny knows I’m the smartest guy in engineering right now. Also the hottest – but don’t tell T’Challa I said that, he’s still upset over losing the title of Sexiest Billionaire Alive to me last year.”

Parker doesn’t seem to buy it so Tony quickly changes the subject cause two o’clock in the morning is not the time to bare his soul to some random employee. His doubts are between him and himself alone. Okay, maybe JARVIS, but as Pepper is so fond of insisting, ‘JARVIS doesn’t count’. 

He totally does, in Tony’s opinion, least of all cause he reminds him of things like real food and when the newest season of whatever show Pepper’s into at the moment drops online. 

By the time JARVIS’s breakfast notification pops up on the nearest screen, the sunlight’s brighter than the artificial lighting of the lab and both Parker and Barnes look in dire need of caffeine. 

“Then get me some; I ain’t stopping before this is done,” Bucky says, not looking up from the third-to-last prosthetic they gotta complete before it’s gonna be express-couriered to Washington DC. 

Tony shrugs and motions for Parker to come along, which he does without hesitation. 

Until he sees which floor Tony pushed in the elevator.

“Uh, aren’t we going to the cafeteria?”

Tony grins. “Better.”

He leads the kid to the executive lounge, which is still as stuck-up as Tony remembers. Italian furniture, dark woods, a beautiful view of Central Park peeking through between the neighboring skyscrapers, a kitchen that would be the envy of some of the city’s best chefs… oh yeah, and fully stocked cabinets.

“We’re gonna have to cook ourselves,” Tony says, already checking the fridge for ingredients, “cause Saturday, and all. But I make a mean bagel, and I guess this day calls for hash browns – Bucky’s faves, don’t let him fool you with his pseudo-healthy wholegrain vibe. What’s your poison in the mornings?”

“Um… bagel sounds good?”

“That a question or a request, kid?”

Parker ducks his head and Tony decides to give him a break, as well as ample amounts of coffee (brewed by the most amazing AI to ever AI when Tony got moving) while assembling everything he needs. 

Tony wouldn’t say he likes cooking, per se, but he got nothing against it. It’s just time-consuming as fuck and therefore takes a backseat in his priorities any given day.

“Cinnamon rolls.”

Tony looks up from the bag of pre-shredded potatoes (self-catering kitchens are fun, but you gotta draw the line somewhere, right?) to find Parker staring down into his cup of coffee. 

“What was that, kid?”

“Cinnamon rolls. My, uh, my poison… I mean, I’m not asking for you to make them, I just – cause you asked.”

Yeah, and he already regrets it. Tony swallows down the wave of memories and moves on to slicing the onion since then at least he has an alibi if his eyes get a bit watery. Never mind that he rinsed it in hot water and thus won’t have a problem with the sting. 

He manages a nonchalant, “How come?” but the ensuing silence goes on for so long he can’t help but check on Parker… who looks like he’s the one battling memories. 

“My uncle. He used to…” Parker takes a deep breath. “Sorry. He made them some mornings.”

_Oh._

Tony clears his throat. “When?”

If Parker’s surprised that Tony caught his drift so quickly, he doesn’t let it show. 

“Three years ago.”

“Sorry.”

Parker nods but keeps looking like a sad puppy. Decades of Howard’s conditioning have curbed Tony’s immediate reaction of offering to fix things the second he notices they’re broken, but that doesn’t mean he’s lost those instincts altogether. He just chooses when to act on them more carefully nowadays, which is actually a good thing, as Pepper would say. No matter how harsh Howard was, everything he did had a reason behind it, and a Tony who doesn’t fall for every sob story won’t squander the family fortune on useless charities or individuals. 

Anyway. 

Parker is no useless individual, he’s by all accounts a valuable asset to the company, so Tony feels justified when he sets the bowl of hash brown dough aside and picks up his half-empty mug of coffee instead. 

The movement draws Parker’s attention, too, and when his eyes actually meets Tony’s again, he clinks their mugs together. 

“I used to know someone who baked for breakfast, too,” Tony says. “Was a real pain in the ass. Up at the crack of dawn, always leaving a mess in the kitchen; turns out it was just to get a rise outta me and lure me in.”

“He succeed?” 

Tony chuckles. “Not with getting me to bake. But he became my best friend for the next, hm, thirty-five years, give or take?”

He sees the exact moment Parker realizes who Tony’s talking about. 

Would be hard not to – after all, Rhodey was very outspoken as leader of the special unit tasked with tracking him in Afghanistan, and there’s about a gazillion videos of Tony breaking down while speaking at his funeral. 

“Anyway,” Tony eventually continues, “I can’t make you cinnamon rolls. But tell you what, Parker, if we’re done with this by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll find out what place makes the city’s best cinnamon rolls and buy you as many as you want.”

“Oh, that, um, that’s not necessary, Mr. Stark –”

“You know, we’ve spent the night together, you should really call me Tony.”

Parker seems too surprised to give his awful pun the reaction it deserves, but after a beat he offers a tentative “Peter” and has visibly perked up. 

It’s only hours later, when they’re forced to take a short break after Barnes uses too much force and breaks his worktable, that something occurs to Tony. 

“Hang on. It’s Saturday, right? We keeping you from anything? Cause I sorta monopolized your time way beyond the few hours I had in mind Friday night.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Peter hurries to say. “I… I can stay till we’re done.”

“Won’t be till tomorrow, though.”

“It’s fine,” Peter says again, this time with more force and that shifty expression that reminds Tony of when the kid tried to lie about his inability to sleep. 

“Won’t whatshisname – Beck. Won’t he miss you?”

Peter goes from puppy to pit-bull in the blink of an eye. “No.”

“Oh….?”

What? Tony’s a noisy fucker, alright. Other people’s drama is interesting. 

The kid’s not in a sharing mood, though, cause he seizes the moment of Bucky’s return to escape the questioning by helping his mentor. 

Well, ’s not like they’ll be outta here within the next few hours. Tony can wait. 

His chance comes one more sleepless night and one exhausted sprint down the finish line later. All the different prosthetics are perfectly rendered and sure to impress the socks off the representatives in Washington who will undoubtedly give the government contract to Stark Industries, plus it’s noon (okay, noonish).

“So,” Tony say, “lunch?”

Barnes snorts. “Someone’s gotta oversee the packing.”

“Is that someone you?”

Bucky communicates the ‘Duh’ without a single word and orders them out of the lab to shower cause apparently, they’re starting to smell (stones and glass houses, really), giving Tony the perfect opportunity to steal Peter away for another couple of hours. 

“Oh, no, I’ll just use the communal showers,” Peter says, for no reason whatsoever, cause…

“I’m talking about one of my penthouse bathrooms! How can you say no to that?”

“I– I got my spare clothes in my locker and, uh, I don’t wanna impose…”

Which is nonsense, of course, and even Peter has to concede that using someone’s shower in exchange for helping forty-five hours straight to meet a deadline is a no-brainer. 

True to his word, Tony sics JARVIS on finding Manhattan’s best producer of cinnamon rolls and gets them to deliver a batch in record time on a Sunday yet doesn’t reveal this until they’ve both reconvened in the kitchen after their respective showers.

Peter looks genuinely impressed by the open-floor design, even if he’s oozing awkwardness by the bucket in the backup clothes he collected from the staff locker rooms. He comes to a stop by the window that provides a breathtaking view over Manhattan from the seventy-fourth floor. 

“Hey, I ordered lunch.” Tony waits till Peter has turned towards him. “Well, breakfast for lunch. Cinnamon rolls. I’ve had a craving ever since you mentioned them, kid. Better watch what you say in the future or Pepper’s gonna harp on my waistline again.”

“Uh, sorry, I –”

“Kidding.” Tony pauses. “Okay, only partially. But I ain’t got a problem with Pepper’s harping, so I say bring it on.”

He grins yet stops when he sees the twinge of… _something_ in Peter’s expression. Whatever it is, it’s unpleasant. It’s quickly replaced by a look of gratitude, though. 

“I… thank you, sir.”

“Tony.”

“Thank you, Tony,” Peter repeats, his voice steadier already. 

The twinge expression returns with a vengeance when they’re finally lifting the lid off the box holding the cinnamon rolls (still hot from the oven, gawd). 

Peter closes his eyes when the smell hits him. For a moment, his face smooths out, then the consternated face is back. “I shouldn’t.”

“Says who?”

Peter lifts a shoulder. 

“Seriously, you’ve been working yourself real hard, you need the fuel. And the treat. If I ordered too much, just take them home with you. Or bring them to Beck.”

But Peter’s already shaking his head. “He wouldn’t like them. Not even for breakfast,” Peter explains at Tony’s arched eyebrow. 

“Too much sugar?”

“Yeah.”

“Same with Pepper. More for us, then,” Tony grins and tears the first roll off the bake. 

They’re as delicious as advertised and worth every single penny that JARVIS paid the makers. Also, they pair surprisingly well with a generous serving of Glenmorangie.

“Want some, too?” Tony offers. 

Peter blinks. “I’m not twenty-one yet.”

“So? I had my first champagne when I was six. Granted, only so I’d calm down for the holiday photos and wouldn’t – never mind, grab yourself a soda.”

When Peter takes water instead, Tony figures it’s just to be contrary, but there’s no pointed look thrown in his direction or any throat-clearing as Tony tops off his glass for the third time. The only glances Tony notices are the furtive ones Peter sends the remaining cinnamon rolls. 

He pushes the box closer to the kid in a non-verbal ‘Go ahead’, and Peter gets as far as reaching out before withdrawing his hand again. 

“They aren’t gonna bite, you know,” Tony says. 

Peter flushes, caught. 

And still doesn’t take another roll, even though he clearly wants to. 

Tony sighs. “Be glad you only got a boyfriend who’s trying to make you eat healthy. Once your PA’s in on it, all the fun just – _poof_ – evaporates from your life.”

Peter looks a bit lost, so Tony explains about Carol and how she’s become an invaluable asset in his daily life, despite her mission of poisoning Tony with veggies. 

“And exercise, don’t forget about exercise,” he adds. “_Jesus._ So I hate weightlifting, what’s so hard about that to understand?”

A lot, apparently, cause Peter doesn’t empathize with him, never mind how thoroughly underwhelmed the kid sounds when talking about the fitness routines he and Beck are following. 

Compared to those two, Tony guesses he should consider himself lucky. At least Pepper and his schedules never synch up in a way that would allow for joint workouts. Not that Tony would be caught dead in the spin classes Pepper swears are the reason she has yet to need Botox. Which she doesn’t need in the first place, she – wait. 

_Now or never._

“That why you were here on Valentine’s Day?” Tony asks once he finally identifies the chance that’s presented itself. “Had a little spat about exercise?”

Peter shakes his head so quickly Tony doubts he even had a chance to think it through, and from the widening of Peter’s eyes, it would seem Tony’s right. 

“Then what? Hey, I’ll go first: I was helping Bucky, forgot the time, and didn’t show up to our dinner reservations. Pepper banished me to the couch, but I guess I never made it there. Nothing a bunch of flowers and a new necklace won’t fix, really. Your turn.”

The quid-pro-quo approach pays off – one moment Peter’s biting his lip, obviously reluctant, the next he finally finds his voice.

“I lied to him,” Peter says, definitely sounding more rueful than Tony did. “Said I was gonna be at the library, but I wasn’t.”

Tony waits for the punchline that doesn’t come. “So?”

“So he came by to take me to coffee and I wasn’t there.”

“Well, where were you?”

If possible, Peter’s shoulders slump even further. “Buying him a present.”

“Oh no, how dare you! On Valentine’s Day! Shame on you, Parker.”

Unfortunately, his exuberant reaction fails to elicit the desired response. Peter just keeps looking like a puppy left out in the rain for too long. 

“Come on,” Tony probes. “How’m I supposed to help you fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong?”

“H-help?”

“Least I can do,” Tony say with a wave of his hand. “‘sides, I’m the resident genius at making up for mistakes with your partner. Seriously, they should give me another doctorate.”

“But… you and Miss Potts…”

“Got our share of problems, like any other couple. So let’s hear it. How’s buying Beck a present translate into you pulling an all-nighter of the unsexy kind?”

It takes a bit, but eventually Peter’s resistance melts away enough for him to explain, “It’s our first Valentine’s, you know, so I wanted to do something special…”

“Been there, kid. For future reference: giant stuffed bunny – not a good idea.”

Peter’s eyes widen, no doubt at the mental image, and Tony makes a note to find a picture of the actual bunny somewhere and show it to him. Might cheer the kid up. 

“I bet yours was way classier, though?”

“Um, yeah.” Peter grins, albeit timidly. “Quentin, he’s really fond of belts, like the expensive kinds,” Peter says, and Tony wonders if their definitions of ‘expensive’ overlap at all. 

Or Tony’s and Beck’s, for that matter.

“And I saw on Instagram that the Prada store on Fifth was gonna have a special Valentine’s Day discount, and I’d saved just enough money and I told him I’d be at the library when I was actually heading to the store. But, um… I’m not really good at lying,” Peter says, genuinely embarrassed which is the only reason Tony bites down on his ‘No shit’.

“Lemme guess,” Tony says instead, “he got suspicious, decided to surprise you, didn’t find you at the library and…”

“Traced my phone.”

It’s not said with any of the self-righteous indignation that Pepper used when Tony did the same thing (for very valid reasons, okay?). Rather, Peter’s tone is matter-of-fact, like it’s normal. 

The kid doesn’t notice Tony’s bafflement and simply plows on. 

“He intercepted me past 51st street, I was so close… And I immediately apologized for worrying him, I shoulda known better, but… I thought I’d get away with it. He’s been so busy with his Masters and the new project and…” 

Peter rubs his hands over his face as he sighs. Tony waits. 

“Please don’t get me wrong, I love how much he cares, I do. That he wants to know about my day and stuff, that’s – but sometimes…”

“Sometimes you just need some alone-time?” Tony suggests. “Or time to buy your partner an awesome present?”

“Yeah.”

“You told him that?”

Peter shakes his head. “I was gonna, but… he thought I was gonna meet someone. On Valentine’s Day. Said I was acting really weird and that I was distracted when we – um.”

Tony has a hard time deciphering Peter’s expression in that moment. He seems troubled and rueful, yet at the same time, there’s an undercurrent of anger that’s impossible to ignore. 

“You set him straight? Well, figuratively,” Tony adds and mentally cheers when he catches the faint twitch of Peter’s lips at the pun. 

“I… I might’ve overreacted. It’s just – I’d been planning this for weeks and saving up and I had back-up plans and, and how can he even think I’d ever cheat on him?”

Ah, there’s the anger. 

“He didn’t give me a chance to explain, he just assumed, and when I snapped at him he told me we’d talk about this at home, like he was afraid I’d make a scene and I wanted to, just to… But I know how much he’d hate that so I… We got a cab.”

“Lemme guess – he didn’t leave it alone?”

Peter shakes his head. “He… He’s been worried that I’m getting – uh. He brought up an old argument and I just…”

“You lost it? Stormed out?”

Peter nods, not meeting his eye. 

“He call? text?”

“Yeah.”

And often, too, if Tony’s reading Peter’s expression right. 

“Told me to come back when I’m ready to apologize.”

Ouch… Familiar territory, though. 

“Are you?” Tony says. “Cause hey, we all overreact sometimes. Or underreact. It’s what you do to fix it that’s the key to a successful relationship.”

It’s something he’s said in several interviews, mostly whenever the press reported on whatever minor scandal they’d fabricated about him and Pepper that week. At least they’re always right on who it is that screws up.

Peter doesn’t seem to have heard it before, though, cause he looks at Tony with wide eyes. “How? I… We never argued – or, not like this. I… what do I do?”

“Apologize. But never show up empty-handed – I’d say flowers but Beck doesn’t strike me as the kind to appreciate a great bouquet… and your reaction just confirmed it,” Tony says with a grin after Peter snorts. “You don’t wanna go the chocolate route, either, I guess, given Beck’s aversion to sugar… Hm.”

His mind’s whirling with options, from cheesy to over-the-top. Cause as much as Tony believes setting up charities for someone is a great way of saying ‘I’m sorry I missed your mother’s birthday’, he doubts it would have the same effect on Beck that it did on Pepper. Besides, you gotta start small with these things; apology gifts gotta get bigger every time you buy one, otherwise don’t bother… Where was he?

Right. Something small but thoughtful. 

The solution is so obvious Tony wants to slap himself. 

“Got the perfect thing for you, kid. Come on.”

He’s off without waiting for Peter’s reply, across the suite and through the door connecting the living room with his dressing room (that Philistines would call a walk-in closet, ha). He passes the racks of suits and jackets and dresses (Pepper’s, obviously), evades the comfy-but-ugly bench Pepper insisted on adding, and locates the drawer he needs in record time.

The rectangular box he takes out and presents to a stunned Peter has a transparent window in the lid, providing a clear view of – 

“That’s the belt!” Peter gasps. “But that’s impossible, it’s only been released today.”

“For the common public, you mean,” Tony says with a wink. “I got this in the mail a couple o’ weeks ago. Lotta brands just send me their stuff, hoping I’ll wear something. I don’t do paid ads anymore, so that’s how they try and get free publicity outta me. Solid plan, in theory, guess I gotta wear _something_, right? But I’d need to change my outfit five times a day to even have a chance of getting through them all, and that’s minus the items I wouldn’t be caught dead in – anyway. I got a belt like this, so you take this one. Give it to your man before you apologize, that way he’s gonna be in much better spirits to hear you out.”

Too bad no one told Tony that the first time he and Pepper fought. 

Peter, meanwhile, is busy keeping his eyes from bulging too much. “I… I can’t accept that, Mr. Stark,” he stammers, “that’s too much –”

“Tony, kid. I thought you were smart.”

“I…”

“Or don’t you wanna make up with him? Cause if you don’t, I know I can come up with a sure-fire way to make him break up with you instead –”

“What? No, no, I don’t – I love him, he’s –”

“The light of your life, yeah, yeah, I get it. Save the poetry for your boyfriend,” Tony interrupts, if only to nip any sign of jealousy at how easily these words seem to come for Peter in the bud. Pepper says it, too. Just rarely with words. “Take the belt, kid. I got dozens of them.”

“I… Thank you.”

Peter manages to make the phrase sound so sincere that it can’t be anything but genuine, and Tony finds himself reluctantly curious as to how the story unfolds. Pepper always tells him to socialize more with actual, real-life people, and somehow, despite the age difference, Peter proved to be better company than most of the folks Tony meets any given day.

In a split-of-the-moment decision, Tony pulls out his phone that he thankfully remembered to transfer from his days-old pants to the clean ones after his shower. “Don’t mention it. But do mention how it works out, okay? I wanna know if I saved the day.”

Peter stares down at the phone. “Is that – that’s the new model!”

“Yup,” Tony grins. “And I’ll let you play with it some other time, alright. Type in your number already, so I can text you and you can confirm how brilliant I am after several rounds of vigorous make-up-sex.”

The dazed awe with which Peter complies is wonderful if not unexpected, but what can he say? It’s not every day _the_ Tony Stark asks for your number. 

“And he texted an hour ago,” Tony says with a smug grin later that evening. “Day saved. I’m secretly Cupid.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You done now? Can I go home?”

“But you are home, buddy,” Tony teases, only to get a tablet shoved at him (Barnes fucking _knows_ he hates to be handed things, damn it) so he can sign the shipment order for the prosthetics bound for DC. 

“You might do with taking your own advise,” Bucky says. “Do us all a favor. Heard Miss Potts’s in an awful mood today.”

“Already taken care of.”

Bucky arches an eyebrow. 

“Hey, show a bit more faith here, Barnes! I got Vera Wang on speed dial.”

“Ever thought about using your words?”

“Sure, but you gotta underscore them with something. Actions speak more than a thousand words, and all that.”

“Buying her forgiveness don’t count as action.”

“Hey,” Tony snaps. “I don’t buy her – I’m always sincere.”

Bucky raises both his arms in defense. “Ain’t arguing with that, Stark. But way I see it, if someone loves you, your word oughta be enough.”

“And when’s the last time anyone loved you, huh?”

The second the words leave his lips, Tony wants to take them back. Hell, he’s ready to invent a time machine, cause _fuck_, he’s never seen Bucky this hurt, ever. 

He leaves without another word. Tony doesn’t blame him. 

Well, it was only a matter of time before he was gonna screw up the only friendship he’s got left.


	7. seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's returned from the dead? This writer!   
I'm sorry this took so long to post. I started two new side jobs which thankfully pay my bills, and actually got some screenwriting work (I get to officially call myself and 'optioned screenwriter' now, asdghjk) and somehow it's December and I haven't updated in weeks. Months? Anyway, I'm back! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this wild ride of a chapter :)

The door opens several seconds after Peter’s knock. 

It didn’t seem right to simply let himself into Quentin’s apartment after what happened, so he forwent the key in favor of fidgeting in the hallway.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says as soon as Quentin realizes who’s outside his door. “I didn’t think it through and didn’t mean to worry you. I should’ve just told you what I was doing. I will, in the future. I promise,” he says, hoping it doesn’t sound as rehearsed as it is. “Here.”

Quentin arches an eyebrow at the parcel. “What’s that?”

“For you. For Valentine’s Day. Sorry I’m, uh, so late with this.”

It’s a weight off his shoulders to see Quentin’s brow relax and his eyes soften. Even better is his expression when he lifts the lid and takes in the belt. 

“This is… Wow, babe…”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says again and would have continued but Quentin pulls him into a tight hug before he manages another syllable. 

“I was so worried, babe, you got no idea,” Quentin whispers in Peter’s hair. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Peter says, and buries his face in the nape of Quentin’s neck when the wave of emotions threatens to overwhelm him. “I’d never… Please, I swear…”

“What?” Quentin pulls away and takes Peter’s head into his hands, tilting his chin up as he does. Peter has no chance to avoid his gaze. “Babe?”

“I… I’d never cheat on you. You gotta believe me, Quen, I…” Peter swallows. “I love you. I’m not bored. I… I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I –”

“Shh, it’s alright, babe, it’s fine,” Quentin says, then strokes Peter’s hair in that tender way that makes Peter want to huddle close and never let go again. 

*

As Peter discovers, _vigorous_ is definitely the right adjective to describe their make-up-sex.

Peter’s too relieved that Quentin forgives him to even mind the extra-long cuddling he indulges in afterwards. 

“I’m glad you’re back, babe,” Quentin whispers into Peter’s neck. “Please, never worry me like that again.” 

Peter nods against Quentin’s chest and tightens his grip. 

It’s not until the next morning over breakfast that Quentin asks about what he did at the Tower. 

Peter’s so startled he drops his slice of whole grain toast. “How’d you know I was there?” 

“Babe,” Quentin sighs, looking up from his tablet, “you just stormed out. Anything could have happened to you. I needed to know you’re okay. You can’t blame me for checking up on you.”

Part of Peter does, however, cause if Quentin’s so big on communication and transparency, why’d he go behind his back and call SI security to see whether or not Peter had checked in?

“Because I knew you’d react this immaturely to it,” Quentin says when Peter actually mentions his discontent. “No, don’t – I don’t mean it in a negative way, babe. I love you, flaws and all. You’re young and naive, and that’s wonderful, but babe, the world’s… the world’s a scary place. I just want to keep you safe. I never wanna lose you.”

Okay, now Peter feels like an idiot. “I… I’m sorry –”

“It’s okay, babe.” Quentin smiles. “I don’t mind explaining.”

And that’s the end of it. At least, the end of that discussion. It takes a bit of time to get used to knowing there’s a tracking app on his phone (their compromise), but once it actually saves their date one weekend, Peter becomes fully convinced. 

They were exploring a street market in DUMBO, along with half of the city by the looks of it, and one moment Peter knew exactly where Quentin was, the next… he was gone. Peter only started to panic after he’d circled the area twice with no success, and no matter where he went, he didn’t get a signal. GPS was still working, though, which is why Quentin was able to track him down. 

“See?” Quentin says after their reunion kiss, “I’m right to be worried.”

Peter feels like it takes their relationship to the next level. 

“Bullshit,” Tony says, one day at the end of March, and snatches another yoghurt-covered raisin from the bag. “And stalking’s romantic, huh?”

“That’s different.” Peter pulls the snack closer. He’s still got an hour of work to do before he can reasonably take a break for long enough to eat real food. “We have a deeper level of trust.”

“Oh, yeah? And stop hogging all the raisins, damn it.”

Just out of spite, Peter steals the final three from the trail mix and pops them in his mouth. 

If anyone had told him in January that he’d be spending one-on-one time with Tony Stark – _the Tony Stark!_ – to an extent that he’d go so far as to call them friends, Peter would have asked them if they forgot to take their meds. 

After helping him and Mr. Barnes in the lab, Peter thought that would be the last he’d seen or heard from the guy, but he didn’t expect Tony to alienate Mr. Barnes so much he refused to even talk to him. 

How Tony decided the best choice for a messenger is Peter, he’ll never know, but as of the week after Valentine’s Day, Peter’s found himself in constant contact with Tony. The downside of the situation is Bucky’s horrible mood that makes even Shuri steer clear of his workspace, but Peter treats it as a learning experience. 

Quentin is less enthused. “Of course he’d let someone else do the dirty work after he made a mess. You’re just convenient for him, babe. Don’t get too excited. He’ll forget about you the second you’re no longer useful to him.”

All of their friends echo Quentin’s statement. Victoria especially has a few choice words on Stark stealing away people to suit his every whim, other departments’ needs be damned, and Peter can see some of what they criticize Tony for in his behavior…yet at the same time, he also sees how much Tony cares, both for his company and his legacy. 

It’s hard to reconcile the two different personas of Tony Stark that Peter encounters, but fortunately he doesn’t have to, for now. 

The main reason Peter’s able to let the situation slide is cause Quentin’s set on completing his Masters in the summer after Peter’s first year at Columbia and it’s taking a toll, both on their time together and Quentin’s mood. 

Things aren’t much different from while Peter was suffering through finals and they made it through that unscathed, so Peter’s not worried. He gets that he’s taking a backseat until Quentin’s done with his degree. 

“See, now that’s a reasonable attitude to have,” Tony says, still fiddling with some of Mr. Barnes’ blueprints that are so top-secret Peter isn’t even allowed to watch. But they have no problem letting him courier the damn tablet up and down the Tower. “Do I complain when Pepper spends her nights going over guest lists for the summer gala? No. But the second I pull out my tablet in bed, she’s got a problem.”

“Maybe she wants you to pull out something else?” Peter quips before he can think better of it. He’s mortified for a full second, but then Tony’s flabbergasted expression morphs into a full-belly laugh and he figures all’s good. 

“And I thought I had a dirty mind, kid,” Tony grins and finally hands the tablet over. “Tell him to check section five-delta in particular; it’s giving me trouble and he’s the resident expert on integration interfaces.”

Peter totally would have, if Shuri hadn’t intercepted him on his way to Barnes’ lab and confronted him about why he’s behind on his assigned tasks this month, which… well, somehow derails into Peter explaining about Mr. Barnes and Mr. Stark’s, um, issues, which in turn leads to Shuri stalking downstairs, taking Peter with him. 

“This ends now,” she tells Tony. “Parker has better uses than acting as an owl and you’re both grown men, so get over whatever bromance crisis you’re having and stop decreasing my department’s efficiency.”  
“Hey, I’m still official Head of Engineering –”

“Who will lose his head if he doesn’t stop acting like a five-year-old,” Shuri says, as matter-of-factly as anything, and Peter’s amazed to see Tony actually… give in. 

At Peter’s baffled expression, Shuri smirks yet doesn’t explain. 

“Oh, we go way back,” Tony says with a dismissive wave when Peter broaches the subject after she’s left. “Us geniuses have to stick together, right?” He glances at the tablet Peter’s still holding. “So, why don’t you try this again? Assembly lines don’t design themselves.”

“I, um…”

Peter pauses, but it only takes one of Tony’s ‘Speak your mind, kid’ looks to make him go on. 

“I think she’s right? I mean, it’s been three months and… You said you were close and I’m sure he’d like to, uh, to go back to how it was, too.”

“Ha, then he would’ve accepted one of my apologies already. Don’t stress yourself over this, kid, I’m used to it.”

“To what?”

“Fucking things up. Barnes ain’t the first.”

That’s the thing Peter’s noticed about Tony: for someone with such a utopian vision of the future, his own outlook is horribly fatalistic. Seems like he believes everyone deserves the best in this world… except for him. 

Well, Peter won’t stand for it. He’s been quiet about this for long enough. 

He starts by asking, “How’d you apologize?”, then has to keep himself from banging his head against the nearest surface cause Tony sent Bucky _gifts_. And that after Bucky explicitly told Tony he values a sincere apology more than anything money could buy, which Peter happens to agree on. 

“Oh, you say that now,” Tony snorts, “but you’ll learn, young padawan.”

Peter has grown used to Tony’s encyclopedic knowledge of _Star Wars_ quotes and doesn’t feel a twinge in his chest every time Tony uses one, but it still doesn’t help make Peter back off. 

Thing is, this situation sucks. For everyone – Tony might act all flippant, but Peter can tell he misses his Bucky, and Peter’s been around Mr. Barnes for long enough to tell which shade of dark his mood is any given day. And it’s gotten darker every week. It makes him a worse mentor, too, so Peter’s motivation isn’t truly altruistic, but still… someone’s gotta do something, and he’s in a position to act. 

He needs to do some detective work first, though.

“How’d you and Tony meet?” Peter asks Bucky, whose reply has enough swear words in it to make Peter blanch. 

He tries again a few days later, yet the outcome remains the same. 

So he goes to Tony. 

“Oh, when he was still in hospital, angry at everything, including me for trying to give him a state-of-the-art prototype that was gonna change his life for the better. I know, how could I?” 

Tony chuckles and takes another sip from his tumbler. Based on Peter’s limited experience, he estimates it to be Tony’s third or forth of the evening. 

“Second time I saw him, he came to me, telling me ‘the arm’s shit’ and explaining in excruciating detail why what I thought to be my biggest accomplishment to date ‘sucked balls’. But hey, back then I believed the Jericho missile would get the company past its first trillion, so whaddo I know? Anyway.” 

Tony pauses, then quickly shakes himself in the way he does when he tries to chase away memories of Afghanistan. At least that’s Peter’s theory. For the considerable number of times Tony brings up his kidnapping and chaotic escape in conversation, he never goes into details. Never has, especially not on record. 

“After I got back and remembered, ‘hey, didn’t I start a cybernetics program,’ this little shit from Brooklyn had taken over, made himself at home in the labs we were using, and everyone was too chicken to throw him out.”

Peter definitely empathizes. Mr. Barnes can be scary if he wants or needs to be. 

“I would’ve if needed, trust me, but I got an eye for brilliance, and his work? Damn. So I made it official.”

“And he moved in immediately?” Peter prompts. 

It’s not as subtle as it probably should have been, but Tony’s in a talking mood. He drains the whiskey and keeps up a monologue on the way to get a refill.   
“Nah. Noticed him sleeping in his office one night after Pepper and I – doesn’t matter,” he says with a grimace that Peter decides to ignore. “Told him to go to floor seventy-one instead, even had it remodeled to fit his needs better, added some machines for PT… Bastard refused. But nobody beats me at stubborn, kid, not even grouchy, anti-social geniuses, no matter how often they threaten to quit. So now he’s a permanent resident,” Tony finishes with a sweeping gesture that spills some of his new drink. 

Tony immediately darts forward to lick off the booze that’s trickling down the outside of the glass. Peter’s not sure why the sight causes a pang in his chest. 

“And how, I mean – if it’s not too forward,” Peter says, hesitant, yet Tony motions at him to go ahead. “How’d you become friends?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We never talked much, cause, you know,” Tony says, waving at his own ears, “but he didn’t mind me rambling while I was in the room. Always figured he’s ignoring me completely, so when… Well, not sure how much you know about panic attacks?”

Peter blinks. “Mr. Barnes had a panic attack?”

“Nah.” Tony’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I did. Barnes talked me through it. Guess that broke the ice, huh?”

Peter agrees, though unfortunately, he can’t use that in his plan to make them reconcile. 

In the end, the perfect chance comes from somewhere he would’ve last expected it. Or rather, someone.

“What do you mean, he’s busy? He’s right there!” Steve scoffs, pointing through the glass at where Mr. Barnes is typing away on a computer at the lab, his back pointedly turned towards them. 

Peter cringes. “That’s what he said. I’m sorry, I…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Steve heaves a sigh. “Can you tell him that if he’d just reply to my emails, I wouldn’t have to hunt him down?”

Peter does, only to have Bucky spend the rest of the day muttering about ‘punks unable to take a hint’ and generally being a rude shit to everyone, including Peter.

“And he won’t even tell me what’s it all about,” he grumbles later that night as he sets the plates down on the kitchen island. “Steve neither. Maybe I can help.”

Quentin is home, for a change, and decided he needs a break from his thesis, which means delicious home-cooked meals and quality time in the bedroom. As much as Peter loves their bouts of quick and dirty sex between editing sessions, class and work, he can’t wait to finally have Quentin to himself for longer than the fastest route to an orgasm. 

Before that, though: dinner.

Quentin slides up behind him, each hand carrying a glass of water. 

“How are you supposed to help, babe?” Quentin says, close to his ear. The feeling of him draped over Peter’s back is quite distracting. “You’re a first year co-op student.”

“I know, I know… just…”

“And I thought we agreed not to talk about work tonight, babe.”

Oh yeah, right. Peter’s apology goes unvoiced cause Quen chooses that moment to press his groin against the curve of his ass and _gawd_, it’s been too long.

Good thing chicken curry reheats well. 

It’s while he’s loading the dishwasher that Peter remembers the first time he heard Steve talk about Mr. Barnes – and his negative stance on the no-interview policy.

“So all you gotta do is convince Steve to back off and you’ll have an in with him!” Peter explains in a rush as he trails Tony across the lobby. 

Behind her boss, Carol Denver snorts. 

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Won’t be that easy. You ever met with Rogers on PR matters? Worse than a dog with a bone.”

“Then find a compromise. Show Mr. Barnes you still care about him, and maybe he’ll talk to you again!”

Tony gives him a wry grin as he steps into the elevator while both Carol and Peter hang back. “Your idealism is adorable.”

The elevator doors close. 

Peter’s shoulders slump. 

Then the doors slide open again. 

“Unless,” Tony says, his head cocked, “I’ll agree to join him. We’ll do it in-house, with me doing most of the talking, Bucky just gotta sit there, look pretty, and say a line or two. Carol, get Rogers and Barnes in my office, stat.”

Peter’s thrilled his suggestion went down so well and only realizes a second later that Tony’s looking at him expectantly. 

“This was your idea, kid. Get in.”

Which is how Peter ends up in Tony’s office for the first time. It’s as spacious and grand as you’d expect, but rather than pictures of Tony, the walls and shelves hold various cards, newspaper clippings, and screengrabs from the global media landscape. 

Tony waves him off when he asks. “Oh, don’t mind those; been meaning to redecorate for ages.”

Peter doubts it, cause the latest addition shows a blog post from three weeks ago, about a mute six-year-old girl who’s able to attend her local school thanks to the SI voice replicator technology provided to her by the Maria Stark Foundation. 

He knows better than to call Tony on his BS and contends himself with watching his friend take a seat behind the desk. It’s a strange sight: Tony seems perfectly at home in this space, but compared to how he looks in the labs or his workshop (which Peter has been fortunate enough to visit twice), it’s clear he’s not too fond of this room. 

“Shoulda seen it under Howard,” Tony says, but doesn’t go into detail.

Steve arrives first and takes one of the chairs Tony offers while Peter remains on the sidelines. He’s not really sure why he’s even here – maybe as moral support? 

Which is definitely needed, seeing as Bucky’s expression closes off completely the moment he sees who else is in the office.

Peter motions for Mr. Barnes to take the second chair, but –

“I’d rather stand.”

“Then I’ll join you,” Steve says without missing a beat and, faced with three standing people in his office, Tony rises to his feet as well with a put-upon sigh. 

“Well, they say standing helps concentration, right? Guess this should be one hell of a productive meeting, then.” 

Carol, who he didn’t notice enter the room with Bucky, appears at Peter’s elbow with a soda that he gratefully accepts. Both Steve and Bucky decline her offer of whatever high-end liquor Tony keeps in stock, leaving Tony with the only other glass.

“May I ask what this is about, Mr. Stark?”

“You may do so, Mr. Rogers,” Tony says, raising his drink towards Peter before taking a sip. “But why don’t you guess? Sure we didn’t just hire you for your pretty face.”

“That’s –”

“A fact,” Tony interrupts Steve. “So enlighten us.”

Steve’s eyes do a quick sweep of the room, taking in Tony’s grin, Bucky’s deadly scowl as well as whatever impression Peter’s giving off as he fidgets with his soda, before returning to Tony. 

“The government contract.” 

“Got it in one! Kudos, Rogers.”

“For the last time,” Bucky snaps, “I ain’t doing this shit.”

“This ‘shit’ is necessary for your product to reach the people who need it most,” Steve says immediately. “Why design the best prosthesis on the market and then not help distribute it?”

“Pah, no one wants to see this ugly mug.”

“We’ll put you on podcasts, then. Radio stations.”

“Nobody listens to the fucking radio anymore, Rogers.”

“Mr. Barnes –”

“Kids!” Tony cuts in, both hands raised. “I’m sure, if we all work together, we’re gonna find a compromise. One that gives Mr. Rogers here all the desired air time for his no doubt perfectly planned campaign, and one that doesn’t push Mr. Barnes too far out of his comfort zone.”

“Don’t wanna get out of it at all,” Bucky says. “Ain’t called ‘comfort zone’ for nothin’.”

“And I respect that,” Tony says, which has Bucky snort. “Hey, I totally do. Look, I’m sorry I was such a dick, but I know this shit’s hard for you and I wanna help, okay? Rogers’s got a point, people wanna hear from you. See you, even.”

“Bullshit –”

“We receive countless inquiries about you each week,” Steve butts in, turning fully towards Bucky. “Interview requests, portraits in the _New York Times_, not to mention scientific journals. Your story could inspire thousands of veterans around this country, Mr. Barnes, and you won’t even try to compromise.”

Bucky snorts. “Inspire, my ass.”

“It’s true.”

Three pairs of eyes snap to Peter, who thankfully manages to hold onto his train of thought despite the sudden attention. 

“After I read your publications, I found this subreddit dedicated to your inventions and entire forums and YouTube videos and…” 

He pauses cause he apparently lost Barnes at ‘subreddit’. 

“I mean, there’s a lot. So many people are grateful for what you’ve done for them or their loved ones, and they’d love to hear from you. I think you’d be awesome, sir – you got a way to explain things that just makes sense, and with this new line, it’s gonna be difficult for the layperson to see why it’s worth the upgrade, or the higher price tag if they can’t get enough benefits to cover – I mean…” Peter takes a deep breath. “They’d trust you more than any actor, or even Tony – uh, Mr. Stark,” he amends with an apologetic look, “cause you designed them. You’re _using_ them, even. That’s powerful.”

“And hey, you wouldn’t have to do it alone,” Tony adds. “I’d be there, handling most of the talking.”

Steve looks like he’d prefer it to be otherwise yet doesn’t argue.

Now all eyes are on Bucky, whose gaze has dropped to the floor. Peter can see him clenching and unclenching his flesh hand – the kind of self-soothing gesture he’s observed from time to time. 

“We’d practice,” Tony says. “We’ll secure the right to veto any footage or soundbites you aren’t satisfied with, and we’ll keep you in the loop every step of the way. Won’t we, Mr. Rogers?”

“Of course, sir.”

Peter holds his breath. He can’t tell how inclined Bucky is to go along exactly, but he hasn’t stormed out and slammed the doors yet. 

“Where –” Bucky clears his throat. “Where’d we hold it?”

“Wherever you want, buddy,” Tony says. “If you wanna sit in your bathtub, we’ll go there.”

“Fuck you, that was one time,” Barnes grouses, which makes Tony laugh and Steve look deeply uncomfortable all of a sudden. “I’d go for the lab. My lab. If…”

“If it’s available? Or if we’re doing this?” 

Several seconds trickle by. Peter thinks you could have heard a needle drop in the space between Tony’s question and Bucky’s gruff response.

“Available”.

“Does that mean you’re in?” Steve clarifies, though Tony’s already grinning from ear to ear. 

Peter leaves them to discuss the details after that. He doesn’t miss the grateful look Tony gives him before he exits the office. 

“… as well as higher wearing comfort, but I guess my colleague here has more authority to speak on that matter,” Tony says with a grin and turns towards Bucky on his right. 

He’s less pale than when they started the interview but still equally as tense. Tony guesses the interviewer isn’t helping – Mx. Robbie Tiko may look like a nice person, but their questions are more pointed than some of the tools Tony keeps in his workshop.

It takes Bucky a moment to understand Tony’s segue for what it is, but when he does, he actually uses his arm to exemplify his explanations. Tony’s seen him do that with Peter, and it’s no less endearing in front of a camera. Well, three cameras. 

Explaining how the new alloy they developed affects not only the neurological connection but also direct skin-to-prosthesis contact is difficult enough when your audience is made up of SI employees, who’re generally the best in the country (if not the world, but Tony swore to remain modest today). Getting a reporter to understand the intricacies of what’s involved requires a bit more patience. 

More than Bucky is capable of, probably. 

“What Mr. Barnes is trying to say, I believe,” Tony interrupts when his friend grows increasingly frustrated with Mx. Tiko’s creased brow, “is that you can imagine it like a kind of lube.”

“Lube,” Tiko repeats, deadpan. 

“Sure, why not,” Tony says, even though the expression on Bucky’s face tells him it’s one of the worst comparisons he could’ve chosen. 

It works, though, and quite frankly, it makes for a much better soundbite than anything else Tony could’ve come up with on the spot. Maybe the innuendo he poured into his subsequent statements was a bit much – 

“A bit much?” Pepper shouts, startling the remainders of the Wired crew still lingering backstage. “You all but announced we’re launching a sex toy line!”

“I was kidding! Everyone knew I was. A bit of humor, Pep, what’s wrong with that?”

“We’re a reputable company, Tony.”

“And sex toys are a reputable business!”

“In Europe? Yes. Here? No.”

“Oh, come on,” Tony starts but Pepper won’t let him finish. 

“We’re battling enough privacy concerns as it is. Even if everyone understands you weren’t serious, what do you think the next headline in the opinion columns is going to be? _Stark Industries to enter our bedrooms_?”

“_Penetrate_ would be much more – yes, shutting up now, dear,” Tony says, cause Pepper’s jaw is doing that thing that means he’s on very, very thin ice indeed. “Listen, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t’ve had to improvise if they hadn’t sent such a dumb reporter –”

“You should have prepped Barnes better,” Pepper interrupts. 

For a heartbeat, Tony considers going for the obvious innuendo just begging to be gone for, but… well. 

For one, Pepper’s not pausing long enough to let him get a word in edgewise. For another, he’d rather not spend another night on the couch. That’s the problem with dating your CEO – professional matters have a habit of encroaching on their personal lives. 

So Tony plays the part of the rueful boyfriend, agrees with Pepper that yup, it’s his fault, he shoulda foreseen this; that’s what he gets for letting Rogers rush them into this to ensure the interview goes live right before the summer gala without consulting Pepper on it first, but excuse him for thinking he’s an adult capable of independent thought and –

_Stop it_, Tony tells himself. 

She’s right. There’s a reason she’s CEO and he’s just the head engineer.

Maybe that’s also too much, though. The paper work threatens to suffocate him, even though he trusts Carol to forge his signature for all run-of-the-mill things. The leadership obligations, too, have become a nuisance, despite how little of them are left under his purview once Shuri calls it a day. 

And he’s not very good at it, either. No one’s ever said it outright, but Tony can read people like they’re lines of code most of the time – he knows how little respect the majority of his employees have for him. Knows what names they call him behind his back. 

He brings it up the night before the gala. Drains another glass for courage and returns to the foot-rub he’s in the middle of giving while Pepper reads through the guest list one last time. 

“Pep,” he says.

She holds up a hand. Tony waits until she’s done with whatever she wanted to finish and finally looks up. And immediately does a double-take. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing… per se. I… Look, I’ve been thinking.”

He watches her closely while he explains his reasoning. When her expression fills with pity, though, he wishes he hadn’t. 

“Oh, Tony,” she says, sliding closer on the couch with that innate grace of hers. “Don’t you think if that were the best course of action that I would already have suggested it?”

_Huh._ “If you put it like that…”

Pepper smiles, then brings a hand up to pet his cheek. “How about I make you feel better? Take your mind off things. Give that brain of yours a break?”

Tony wishes it were that simple. 

He’s read up, of course, enough to warrant a PhD in sexual psychology, probably. He knows how amazing subspace allegedly is, just… not from first-hand experience. Pepper never asked. For her, his orgasm seems to signal that he’s satisfied, and he knows he should be, really, and sometimes he is. But other times, when he doesn’t get to pleasure Pepper at all, or too little, or when he’s not allowed to look, or… Well. Let’s just say he could be more sated, on those occasions. 

But Pepper’s happy with him, and that’s more important than his sexual gratification. In the scheme of things that make life meaningful, what’s sex, anyway? 

Sure, he used to act like it meant the world, but peel all that away, add a dash of desert heat and being responsible for the death of your best friend, and you realize there’s lot of more important things in life. 

So he doesn’t say he’d rather see her face when Pepper instructs him to get on his hands and knees while she fits the strap-on over her groin. It’s one that’s molded to stimulate her clit as she’s wearing it with vibration settings for both partners, and Pepper is a sight to behold when she’s using it. 

This way’s easier on her, though, and besides, she loves seeing the marks her fingernails leave on his back. 

And it’s not like Tony isn’t having fun. He loves fucking, and switching it up can feel amazing. Especially when his prostate gets involved. 

Still… once they’re done, Pepper stroking his hair as his head rests on her stomach, he can’t explain the hollowness in his chest. 

*

The summer gala is the type of event Tony handles best on gin. With whisky, it takes an effort to see him properly buzzed, yet the gin he feels after his second glass. 

He always means to ask Bruce about the science behind it, if only to hear the guy’s “Not that kind of doctor,” one more time. Speaking of whom… 

“Oh, there he is, Senator,” Tony says, already guiding the politician to where Bruce is trying to blend into the background. 

She’s young and eager, still filled with idealism and courage; better to harness that before it fades. She also spent the past ten minutes debating the awful state of their nation’s sex education programs, and wouldn’t it be great for SI to help fund an initiative? 

Tony has a black belt in deflection, though, and soon gets to leave her to discuss Bruce’s contributions to gamma knife surgeries for cancer patients.

“What did she want?” Pepper asks the moment they’re reunited at the bar. 

“The usual.”

It’s both a reply for Pep and an order for the bartender, which of course doesn’t slip her notice. 

“My last,” Tony swears.

Pepper lets him have it, then resumes her mingling. Or rather, the strategic dance of ‘Oh, it’s been too long, how’s your partner?’ that she handles so well. Maybe because she doesn’t mind incessant small talk with people just for the sake of paying them attention. 

Another reason she’s the better CEO. 

“Sir?” Carol asks. 

Tony quickly wipes whatever showed on his face and replaces it with a smile. “Nothing.”

He doubts she buys it, she’s way too intelligent for that, but she knows better than to press the point. She also refuses to bring him a fourth gin, cause “Ms. Potts and you agreed that was your last”, meaning that Tony has to endure the rest of the night with water in his glass. 

He would have made it, too, but then Raquel Tench ropes him into a friendly dance (just as he spots Peter and Beck across the room), which of course leads to twenty agonizing minutes of enduring the ramblings of Raquel’s soccer-obsessed husband. But the Tenches always give generously to the Maria Stark Foundation so Tony knows better than to cut their chat short. 

By the time he’s free to seek out Peter, the kid’s already dancing. He looks a hell of a lot more confident on his feet than around Christmas. More than that, even – he follows Beck’s lead as if they share one mind. Peter said he was enjoying dance lessons, and it shows in the glint in his eyes. They never stray from Beck, though, so Tony decides to postpone saying hello and seeks out Pepper instead… 

But she’s in the midst of a gaggle of society women – or would that be a flock? Either way, they’re enough to make Tony turn on his heels. Carol’s still on her break, calling to say goodnight to her wife’s daughter that she’s been trying to adopt for ages now, meaning no one notices when Tony slips out of the ballroom and into the staircase. 

It doesn’t extend beyond the first guest room floors, but one of them has a mini bar and a comfy armchair in a corner with a view over Manhattan, which is exactly what Tony needs right now. Ample space. Cool air. More whisky. 

In short, the exact opposite of what awaits him in the ballroom. 

A knock on the door startles him. 

Did Pepper notice he’s gone? Tony snorts even at the thought and remains seated. 

Another knock. 

_Fine._

Tony heaves himself to his feet and makes his way across the room. JARVIS, bless him, has already switched the screen next to the door to the live feed of the camera outside. 

As expected, it’s not Pepper. Yet it’s not Carol either. 

“Shouldn’t you be dancing?” Tony asks the kid in lieu of greeting. 

“I – I was,” Peter says. “Um, Quen’s talking to Ms. Potts and I saw you sneak out earlier, so –”

“Didn’t sneak out,” Tony scoffs. “Just wanted some peace and quiet.”

He hoped it would be pointed enough for Peter to take the hint and leave, but nope. The kid trails him into the apartment, worry creasing his brow. Even that looks adorable on him, _Christ_.

Tony needs another drink. 

Peter watches in silence until Tony has put the bottle of Old Pulteney back on its shelf. 

“Why’re you drinking alone?”

“Wanna join me?”

Peter doesn’t reply. 

Tony sighs, and sips his gin. “Pepper’s in one of her moods today.”

It’s not the truth, but it’s close. 

“Sure it’s not you who’s in a mood?” 

Tony shoots him a flat look, but rather than be cowed into an apology, Peter just looks at him expectantly. Oh, he’s genuinely asking. 

“I’m fine.”

Peter cocks his head. 

“I am!” Tony says, stalking back toward the floor-to-ceiling windows and trying not to spill his drink in the process. 

“Did anything happen?”

“Nope. But something’s gonna happen if you don’t stop bothering me, kid.”

“Is it about the _Wired_ thing?”

Damn, why do all of Tony’s friends have to be so fucking smart? 

“But that interview was awesome!” Peter says, and Tony can’t help but turn around to check whether – yup, completely sincere. “Mr. Barnes was great, and when he got insecure you distracted everyone with that, um, that metaphor, and no one even noticed.”

“You obviously did.”

“Yeah, but I don’t count,” Peter says with a shrug. “I work with him.”

Tony sighs. “Well, thanks for your ringing endorsement, yet unfortunately the CEO of my company disagrees. As does the Board of Directors.”

“But it’s your name on the building...”

“Yeah, cause I’m majority shareholder. Not the sole proprietor. Ha, and the fact that the CEO’s my fiancé isn’t helping either, I guess.” 

Tony considers the contents of his glass, so he doesn’t see Peter’s expression when he says, “I, I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, kid,” Tony sighs. “Pep and I are a great team for the company. Our dynamic’s as balanced as you’re gonna get.”

As a couple, however… 

“What about compromise?” 

Tony lifts his head at Peter’s question. 

“Like Quen and I,” Peter says, stepping closer, “we got different priorities and stuff, but the first priority for both of us is each other. So I took dancing lessons. And he’s teaching me how to cook. One day we’re going to his friends, the day after to my aunt.”

To Tony, that still sounds incredibly skewed towards Beck. Yet when he wants to say as much, something occurs to him – sudden and abrupt, like an idea, only much more destructive: it’s the same with Pepper and him.

He can’t remember the last time he wanted something different and Pepper noticed, let alone considered the possibility that her wishes might not match his. They’re going with her favorite venue for the wedding reception, her choice of rings. Her favorite brand of coffee stocks the penthouse and it’s always she who decides on their attire for important outings. 

His glass is empty. Frustrated, Tony circles back to the mini bar. 

“Um,” Peter says, but no, Tony won’t have yet another person in his life pass judgement on how much he’s allowed to drink.

“My body, kid, my limits.” He underscores it by pouring himself another few fingers, to hell with what Pepper thinks. “It’s enough that she’s ordering me around in the bedroom.”

Shit, did he actually say that out loud?

“Forget you heard that,” Tony adds hastily. “At least, don’t repeat it to any reporters.” 

“I won’t,” Peter promises, as solemn as can be.

Silence stretches. Tony contemplates his gin while he waits for his inner turmoil to settle.

“Do you, um…” Peter swallows. “Don’t you enjoy it?” 

“Sure.”

“But… not as much as she does?”

“When’d you get so perceptive?” Tony grumbles, then drains the rest of his drink. 

He’d really like another one, but if he continues, he’ll slip into the painfully honest phase of his buzz, and he can’t imagine a worse moment for that to happen than when he’s doubting the future of his relationship.   
“Sorry,” Peter stammers, “I’ll just, um, I’ll go, okay?”  
Fine by him. 

When Tony doesn’t react, Peter retreats. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, like he’s cliché incarnate, but holds back any comment that was on his tongue. 

Good. Now that he’s finally alone, nothing stops Tony from topping off his glass again. 

And again. 

It’s good whisky. It feels nice coursing through his veins. Makes things clearer. Or rather, makes him less of a fucking coward. 

Coward Tony would never admit that he’s been having doubts about Pepper for months. Coward Tony would go back to the party, make nice with guests, and let Pepper have her way with him in the bedroom cause he wants to be a _good boy_, no matter how much of himself he gives up in the process. 

He used to think this was love. This desperate gratitude he was feeling every time Pepper looked at him like he was worth her affection. 

He knows better now. He’s known better for a while. 

He’s just been too pathetic to admit to it. 

_Gawd, Howard must be turning over in his grave,_ Tony thinks and promptly takes another gulp of whisky. 

Once he has set the glass down one final time, he can see the truth in startling clarity – along with what he has to do. 

*

On his final day of freshman year, the student gym is deserted. That alone is not an unusual occurrence at six o’clock in the morning but welcome all the same: it’s been three days since Peter saw his boyfriend, and this way, they can video-chat during their workout.

“If you equate this to ‘seeing me’, babe,” Quentin says from the screen of Peter’s phone that’s propped up against the controls of the stationary bike, “then I’m doing something wrong.”

Peter flashes a cheeky grin. “You’ve gotta do something about that, then.”

“Tomorrow, alright? I can’t let myself get distracted now.”

Not that Peter expected any differently – for the past weeks, the only time Quentin would tear himself from writing his thesis was the SI summer gala. His self-imposed deadline is tomorrow at noon so he can send the draft out to his proofreaders to check and get their comments a week prior to when he has to submit the thing. 

Peter offered to review it as well, but Quentin told him to save his energy. He has more experienced scientists for the feedback process. 

Without the promise of Quentin’s company on the horizon, Peter’s glad there’s a pile of work waiting for him at SI. A dull pile related to William’s newest generation of drones that’s not particularly pressing cause Drone Daddy himself will be on vacation for the next two weeks and Peter estimates he’ll have it done in one… meaning no one will have a problem if Peter uses some of his work hours to track down Tony. 

Thing is, ever since leaving him in that guest room last weekend, all he heard from the man was a cryptic, “I’m better than I have been in a long time, kid” via text message, despite his frequent questions. 

By some miracle (which might be named JARVIS), Peter’s employee ID grants him access to the research labs of Stark Medical. Last Tony told him, he was consulting with Dr. Banner on… Peter’s not entirely sure, something complicated and groundbreaking that has nothing whatsoever to do with any of the fields of engineering that Peter has explored up until now. 

Anyway, Stark Medical’s his best bet, apart from Tony’s private floors, which Peter wouldn’t visit uninvited.

“Mr. Parker?”

Peter jumps about a foot at the sound of that familiar voice, and is torn between excitement and mortification at stumbling upon none other than Dr. Bruce Banner. 

“Wow, hello, um, hi, Dr. Banner. This is a surprise – not to see you here, cause, well, it’s your department, so I’d assume that you spend a lot of time here, but… Um. Sorry.”

“No worries. Are you looking for someone?”

“Uh, yeah. Tony – I mean, Mr. Stark.”

The corners of Dr. Banner’s mouth twitch. Peter would think it’s because of his slip-up, but there’s no mirth in the man’s eyes. 

“It’s just, uh… I haven’t heard from him all that much the past few days and he wasn’t in a good mood at the gala and…” Peter rubs at the back of his neck self-consciously. How pathetic can he sound? He doesn’t even know if Tony ever mentioned his… friendship with Peter to Dr. Banner. “I wanted to make sure he’s okay. Do you – have you seen him today, sir?”

“I have.”

“Oh, that’s… good.”

He waits for Dr. Banner to go on, but the man merely fixes Peter with an unreadable expression for several seconds. 

“How, um… How is he?”

Banner sighs. “Fine, according to himself.”

Peter feels his brow furrow. “He always says that.”

That draws a wry smile from Dr. Banner. “Indeed.” Another moment of silence. Then, “It’s not my position to tell you, Mr. – Parker, was it?”

Peter nods, and “No, I wouldn’t – I just wanna know if he’s okay.”

Judging from Dr. Banner’s reaction, Peter guesses that Tony is anything but. Worry clenches his gut. 

“Please, sir. Can you tell him that? And um, and to get back to me when he can?”

For a moment, Peter fears Dr. Banner will refuse. In the end, the man gives a solemn nod, and simply walks off without goodbye. 

Peter keeps his phone in his field of vision for the rest of the morning, even skips lunch so he won’t miss any of Tony’s texts. He’s glad he did, cause just when everyone’s usually digging into their final work-lunch of the week in the cafeteria, his phone chimes.

_Sorry for being MIA, kid,_ Tony’s text reads. _Lotta stuff happened. Will catch up when I can._

Peter’s thumb is already on the keyboard to type out a reply, yet when he sees that Tony’s still typing, he pauses. 

Sure enough, another message comes – a link to an article. 

Peter has to lean on the worktable in front of him when he processes the headline. 

_‘TONY STARK AND PEPPER POTTS: IT’S OVER. WIRED ASKED THEM WHY.’_

There’s a video. Peter hits play with his heart beating in his chest. 

Both Tony and Ms. Potts look perfectly put-together in two separate armchairs, expressions friendly and open. Peter wonders what deal SI struck with the website to get Tony to do this – he never talks about his personal life in interviews. Said the world wouldn’t have found out about his engagement until they’d sent out invites if it weren’t for Ms. Potts insistence to put out a statement. 

And now they’re announcing the end of their engagement in a breaking news story. 

Peter doubts this was Tony’s idea. 

Nevertheless, he plays along so smoothly that no one would think he hates every second of it. No one ever does, Peter has discovered. He’s only privy to the knowledge of Tony’s aversion to reporters due to witnessing a particularly enraged morning rant while Peter was lending a hand after paparazzi caught Tony stumbling into a taxi at night, prompting sneers and critique from the press at large. 

“Nothing’s gonna change on the business end,” Tony assures whoever’s interviewing them off camera. “Pep and I still are a kick-ass team for Stark Industries.”

“We’re only parting ways in private,” Ms. Potts says. “This way, we’ll be solely focused on what is good for the company.”

There’s no mention of the reason behind their decision. That alone seems to have already ignited a wildfire of theories, as Peter discovers when he plunges into the comment section, then checks reddit. 

“Isn’t it obvious? He cheated on her,” Quentin says. “I’m surprised a man-whore such as Stark even agreed to marry in the first place.”

Peter only realizes his hands have stilled on Quentin’s back when his boyfriend’s muscles shift under his hands. Peter quickly resumes the massage, but even the glorious sight of Quen’s back on the mattress can’t keep him from speaking up. 

“But that was ages ago. Tony’s not like that anymore.”

Quentin snorts. “Just better at hiding it now. Listen, babe,” he says, turning around and gently dislodging Peter so he can meet his eyes. “Men like Stark – they don’t change. He’s a boozing, slutty man-child with enough money to hide behind, and everyone’s too afraid to say anything against him cause he’s way too powerful to topple.”

“But his contributions to –”

“Engineering and science, yes, babe,” Quen interrupts, placing a soothing hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I know. I get that you think you’re his friend, but weren’t you just as blindsided as everyone else by this? Don’t you see? He’s using you, babe, and the moment you’re not useful to him any longer, he’ll drop you like a piece of burnt-out coal.”

Peter disagrees, and vehemently so, but they’ve had this discussion before. He knows that nothing he says will ever convince Quen (or Victoria, or any of the others) that Tony’s not the same man he was before Afghanistan, and that he’s grown since his abrupt decision to shut down SI’s weapons department. 

It’s like talking to a wall, though – multiple walls, in fact, all united by antagonizing Tony cause… Well, Peter’s not entirely sure. Professional jealousy? As much as he loves Quentin’s drive and passion, he’s not blind to the darker side of it. Peter hasn’t given up hope of changing that, however. One day, he’ll get to introduce Quen to Tony and he’ll see that the “jester king” actually takes the fate of the world and his employees very seriously. 

Well, that of employees that ping his radar. Peter gets that Tony can’t know the name of every last janitor in his Tower. 

“Babe?” 

Peter snaps back to the present, where he’s currently in bed with the love of his life. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Um, what’re you in the mood for?”

Quentin’s smirk promises an exciting night. 

*

“No phones on the table!”

Peter’s head snaps up and finds himself at the receiving end of May’s annoyed stare and Quen’s fond exasperation. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and pockets his phone… 

… if only to have it with him when he excuses himself to the bathroom five minutes later. 

Sunday brunch at May’s has become a nice habit, and usually Peter loves spending time with his aunt, but he just got a push notification about another statement from Pepper Potts and it hadn’t loaded before he was told to put his phone away, so – well.

Now that it has, he breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Let me make one thing clear,” she writes in her Twitter thread. “Tony has been faithful to me, and I to him, throughout the course of our relationship. Anyone suggesting otherwise does not know the man I loved. The reasons for our split are ours alone, and I thank you for respecting our privacy more stringently from now on.”

Peter doubts they will – privacy and gossip rags seem to be mutually exclusive – but it’s nice of her to support Tony. 

By the time they get back to Quen’s apartment, however, more people have weighed in. The developing shitstorm reminds Peter of why he’s glad he decided against joining Twitter, but distracts him enough that he misses whatever question Quentin asks him. 

“Babe, come on. I only have a few hours left. Are you sure you wanna spend that on your phone?”

“Shit, no, I’m sorry,” Peter says, and lets Quen pull him towards the bedroom. 

He tries to concentrate, he really does… but he can’t help wondering how Tony’s doing, whether he’s reading any of the comments, whether he’s alone or has Mr. Barnes with him or maybe Dr. Banner. He really should call and check. 

“Argh, teeth!” Quentin hisses. “What the fuck, babe?”

“Shit, I – I’m sorry, I slipped, I didn’t mean –”

“Bullshit.”

“I…” Peter stops, and hopes his expression shows how contrite he is about messing up. 

It takes a moment, but eventually Quentin’s not glaring daggers at him anymore and able to let go of his (now flaccid) cock. 

Peter seizes his chance. “I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you?”

When Quentin doesn’t say no, Peter reaches for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. Focusing on the moment is a lot easier with two fingers in his ass, and soon Quen’s fucking into him with abandon, no trace of anger left in his touch. 

Still, Peter can’t say he isn’t glad when a ping from Quen’s phone signals the arrival of his first set of notes. With Quentin glued to his computer, Peter finally dares to text Tony. 

From: Tony  
_Jeez, kid, I’m fine. Twitter hasn’t made me cry in a decade._

From: Me  
_I just thought you could do with a friendly face? I got the rest of the day._

Half a minute passes with no reply. Then…

From: Tony  
_Fine, but I’ll use you as free labor._

Peter’s okay with that, so he kisses Quentin goodbye, explaining how he left his aerodynamics folder at his dorm, which is technically true, and that he’ll go there to study, then heads across town. 

Tony told him to call when he turns onto 45th Street, and Peter thinks he’s gonna enter through the east entrance, but instead Tony guides him to yet another door. It’s unobtrusive, has a keypad and a biometric scanner next to it.

“Staff?” Peter guesses, and hears Tony chuckle on the other end of the line. 

“Nah. You’ll see. Alright, type in this code…”

Fifteen digits that will change the second the door has shut behind Peter later, he steps… into a very boring, very small lobby. Bare walls, clean tiles, and a single elevator already open and waiting. 

“Is, um, is this the part where you kill me?” Peter quips.

“Oh yeah, cause I don’t have the means to hire a pro. Get in. J’s gonna take it from there.”

Peter does, curiosity mounting when the elevator ascends. “Maybe you’re a serial killer. Then you’d be compelled to do it yourself.”

“You’re watching too much TV, kid.”

Maybe, but watching characters pursue scientific discovery never fails to motivate him when his workload seems overwhelming. 

Still less overwhelming than finding himself in Tony’s personal quarters for the first time since he and Ms. Potts split up. 

Well, ‘quarters’ sounds too modest. ‘Penthouse’ would cover it, but a house should be homey and this space is nowhere near it. Peter can see the spots where furniture is missing, where framed art or photos have left bright spots on the walls when they were removed. 

“Yeah, Pep’s always been more into that stuff than I. Guess she’s only been so nice to me cause I said she could keep the Monet.”

Tony himself looks like he hasn’t slept in days, maybe even longer. He definitely hasn’t shaved since his interview on Friday, his hair’s a mess, and there’s smudges of dirt all along his arms. 

“Um…”

“Regret coming over yet?” Tony grins. “I did promise you manual labor.”

Peter can see why: what he assumes used to be the dining area has been turned into a makeshift workshop, welding tools and saws and wrenches covering every inch of the adjacent sofa and armchairs. 

Tony follows Peter’s eyes to the very expensive-looking, but very stained carpet underneath.

“Yeah, that one’s a goner. But hey, at least I didn’t singe the actual floor, right?”

Said floor is made of light hardwood. Replacing even a single plank probably costs more than Peter’s rent. 

While he helps Tony set up – aka _build_ – new furniture, he learns that Ms. Potts moved into another one of Tony’s apartments in Manhattan. 

“We just got done with the renovations, so perfect timing, really. Not furnished, but hey, I like redecorating. You sure you don’t wanna drink?”

Peter shakes his head and watches Tony sip his screwdriver. 

*

Together, they manage to replace not only the dining table but also several chairs and, weirdly, a bookshelf, even though Peter thought Tony does all his reading electronically.

“But now the wall’s so empty,” Tony complained, so Peter fetched some more materials from downstairs. 

They even draw up impressive plans for the awesomest coffee table ever, holographic interface and computing power to rival that of a small server farm included, and might have started on it if Peter hadn’t been yawning so much.

“Damn, it’s way past your bedtime, kid,” Tony says, prompting Peter to check the watch on his phone and – 

_Fuck._

Five missed calls. Seven messages. All from Quen. 

Tony winces in sympathy when Peter tilts the screen to show him. “Yeah, you better go. Tell him I kept you away from your – on second thought, don’t say that. Something tells me he’s the jealous type.”

Peter doubts that, given that Quen once tried to convince him to agree to a threesome. 

He still doesn’t mention Tony cause Quentin thinks he’s at his dorm, so he just says he forgot the time and he’ll call in a moment. As in, once he’s out of the Tower. 

When he dials Quen’s number, however, he hears a familiar ringtone nearby. 

Peter follows the sound – and meets Quentin’s stare on the other side of 45th Street. 

_Shit._

“I –” 

“Your dorm, huh?”

“Quen, I can explain –”

“Save it,” he snaps, and Peter shuts up immediately. “We’ll discuss this at home.”

Peter can only nod, unable to face the hurt look in his boyfriend’s eyes. 

The entire cab ride passes in silence. 

When they reach Quen’s door, he holds it open and waves Peter ahead. He stops near the sofa and would’ve loved to fixate on the SkyLight, but it’s as dark as the night outside. 

His stomach drops at the sight of Quen, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, regarding him from the other side of the room. The distance between them hurts. 

“Where have you been?” Quen asks, tone clipped. 

“I’m sorry, Quen, I –”

“You lied to me. You lied to my face.”

“I –”

“What were you doing at the Tower? Who’d you meet with?”

Peter gulps. “I’m sorry, I swear I –”

“Who, Peter?” 

Alright. Deep breath. “Tony.”

Quen blinks. 

Peter seizes the chance to explain, “He’s going through a lot right now, so I asked if he needs a friendly face and he said okay so I headed over, but I knew you wouldn’t approve and I didn’t wanna distract you from your work so I lied, and I realize I shouldn’t have, but at the time it seemed like the right thing to do and –”

“Lying is _never_ the right thing to do, Peter,” Quentin says, finally taking a few steps towards him. “The reasoning doesn’t matter. It’s the principle of it. Don’t you love me? Why would you lie to the person you love?”

Peter has no answer to that. 

Then, a shadow passes over Quentin’s expression. “What else have you been lying about?”

“Nothing.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing with Stark? How long’s this been going on?”

“Wha– no!” Peter says, and he reaches out but Quentin immediately steps out of reach. “We’re not – we’re not like that.”

“Yeah, right,” Quentin scoffs, growing more agitated. “You think I’ll believe Stark could keep his hands off some young piece of ass?”

“I’m his friend!”

“You’re just another notch in his bed post, Peter. You think he cares about some pretty twink from Columbia?” Quentin says. 

The condescension in his eyes is grating.

“I’m not sleeping with him! I’d never cheat on you,” Peter says, louder than planned, but Quentin just snorts. 

“Like you’d never lie to me?”

_That’s different,_ Peter thinks – but the words won’t come. 

“You see?” Quentin says. “How am I ever supposed to trust you again after this?”  
His eyes drop to Peter’s shirt, still creased and dirty from welding and building. All of a sudden, Peter can see himself through Quen’s eyes – the ruffled exterior, the rumpled clothes. The secret exit. 

“I…” He swallows, then tries again. “Quen, I…”

He trails off when Quen takes a step back. Peter can’t bear the distance, though, and follows, raising his hands to Quen’s shoulders only to be shrugged off. Peter reaches for his wrist instead to – 

The sudden explosion of pain against his cheek takes him completely by surprise. 

It blinds him, sends him staggering to the side. For a moment, the entire right side of his face seems to be on fire and it’s hard to breathe. 

By the time he’s regained his balance, Quentin’s already rushing forward, looking absolutely wrecked.

“God, babe, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, shit, that’s not – are you…”

Peter gently rubs the spot on his cheek that Quentin’s knuckles connected with and winces at the renewed flare of pain. The horror in Quentin’s eyes hurts a lot more, though. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “That’s not who I am, babe, you know that, I love you, I’d never hurt you.” 

Peter’s hand stills against his cheek as he gives Quentin a flat look, which prompts him to add, “It’s just – you were acting so weird and with all that’s going on, my thesis and Shuri pushing earlier deadlines on me and I gotta meet them if I wanna advance in my career and please, babe, you gotta understand. It’s not like college, the pressure’s real and I… I don’t know what got into me. I’m sorry, babe.”

Peter takes a steadying breath but can’t find it in him to be upset for longer than a few seconds, cause he’s witnessed on multiple occasions how difficult Quentin’s life is right now, even without him adding to it by lying about his whereabouts.

It must show in his face, since the agony bleeds from Quentin’s features and he opens his arms in unspoken invitation. 

Peter closes the distance immediately. 

“I’m sorry, too,” he says against Quentin’s chest. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear. I’d never…”

“Hush,” Quen whispers in Peter’s hair. “We’ll figure it out, babe. I love you. Never forget that, alright?”

“Love you too,” Peter says into the fabric of Quentin’s shirt, tightening his grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra hugs for anyone spotting the _Harry Potter_ reference :)
> 
> Chapter 8 will follow before the new year ✨


	8. eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Updating is my gift to myself today, before I dash off to spend several hours at work. I hope this will brighten your holidays, dear readers, whether you celebrate anything or not :)

During the week that follows their fight, Peter does everything he can think of to make it up to Quen. 

Some things are easy, like treating Quen to a morning blowjob, or riding him on his desk chair when he can convince him to take a break from staring at the screen. Some present more of a challenge, like reining in his usually messier tendencies to ensure Quen isn’t distracted, but Peter gives it his best shot.

Too bad he isn’t very subtle about it.

“You can stop, babe,” Quentin tells him the night before his thesis is due. “I’ve already forgiven you.”

Peter ducks his head, but still clears off the mess of textbooks and notes that somehow exploded across the coffee table, if only to get Quen to give him that fond look again.

Peter smiles back. “You done?”

“One last pass. Gotta check the references. But I need a break,” he adds, lips curling into a smirk. 

He pushes himself off doorframe to his office and ambles towards the sofa. Peter feels his blood rush south at the glint in Quen’s eyes. 

“How about I finger you until you come, then keep you open with your favorite plug, so I can just slip inside you when I finish?”

Peter doesn’t need to tell him how much he likes the sound of that; it’s gotta be obvious from his expression. Quen even sets the plug to vibrate, low but insistent, before he returns to his laptop.

If Quentin’s in the mood to play, he’s in high spirits. Peter feels the knot of worry that’s been lodged in his chest ever since last week finally untangle. It sucks that he doesn’t get to help Tony finish the coffee table, but they both agreed it’s best to let things cool down. 

“No need for both of us to screw up our relationships in the same month, right?” Tony said, his tone wry, and part of Peter breathed a sigh of relief. 

As much as he wants to be there for his friend, he’d have no idea how to explain the fainting bruise on his cheek. The last thing he wants is to stir up trouble for Quen after they put the matter past them. 

It’s when news of Ms. Potts’ current accommodations break two weeks later that Peter realizes, “Shit. I gotta move.”

Quentin arches an eyebrow from where he’s currently chopping fennel at the kitchen counter. 

“New semester – won’t be in Hartley Hall anymore. But it’s not a big deal, I only have, like, four boxes of stuff.”

The rest has found a home in one of Quentin’s closets, the one he cleared out so Peter wouldn’t need to leave his used clothing on a pile in the corner every day. 

“Move in with me.”

Peter lowers his phone cause – but no, Quen looks sincere. 

“What?”

“You spend most of your time here anyway. Yeah, you’ll have a longer commute to class, but it’s closer to the Tower… and,” Quen says, moving to rinse the fennel in the sink, “you’d get to sleep next to me every night.” 

It’s… a brilliant thought, actually. But –

“What about rent?” Peter asks. “I mean, I could contribute some, but it won’t be enough to cover half and –”

“Babe,” Quen interrupts, sets down the strainer and steps right into Peter’s personal space. “We’ll find a way. Compromise, remember? Besides,” he adds, lifting his fingers to caress Peter’s cheek, which never fails to make him melt. “You living here’s gonna be compensation enough.”

“I’ll think about it.” _And talk it over with Aunt May,_ Peter thinks, cause her tales of how wrong she and Ben were to move in together after only six months are still vivid in his memory. 

Granted, Quen and he have been in a relationship for longer, but this is a big step.

“Of course it is,” Quen agrees when he says as much. “What’s to think about?” He places a kiss on the crown of Peter’s head. “Don’t you love me, babe? Don’t you think we’ll be together for much longer?”

Quite the contrary, in fact. And yeah, Peter loves staying over – only that’s different. What if actually living together’s going to ruin them? That’s the last thing he wants to happen.

He needn’t have worried, though. 

As it turns out, they’re already so used to each other’s routines and behavior that a week into their cohabitation, Peter wonders why they haven’t done this sooner. 

Ned isn’t as convinced. 

“You’re nineteen,” he says on one of their (regrettably few) video calls. “Isn’t moving in together something for, I dunno, old people?”

“Quen’s thirty-five,” Peter points out. “And my aunt and uncle got an apartment together when they were twenty-two.”

“Yeah, but they were already engaged, weren’t they? What if you guys break up?”

Peter sighs. Ever since Ned’s first ever relationship ended in sudden heartbreak (for him, not the girl), his best friend has been pretty fatalistic about relationships in general. 

“Then we simply gotta prove him wrong,” Quen says once Peter has finished his rant on the subject. “Show him in person that we’re it, babe.”

“But he won’t be back until Thanksgiving.”

Quentin grins and pulls him flush against his chest. “Surprise,” he whispers, reaches behind his back and… pulls an envelope out of the back pockets of his jeans. 

It holds plane tickets. Two-way, New York to Palo Alto, for the final week of summer holidays. The one that Peter has free but Quen said he couldn’t take off. 

“I cleared it with Shuri,” he says, and the rest of his words is swallowed by Peter’s kiss. 

*

They pool their finances two months later. 

If you had asked Peter when he moved in whether he thinks that’s a good idea, he’d have disagreed, and vehemently so. He’s not gonna be some kind of kept partner – but that’s not the point at all, as it turns out. 

“What’s that?” is Quen’s first question when he finds Peter on the couch, controller in his hand, instead of warming up for their Thursday evening workout. 

But really, anyone in their right mind would skip thirty minutes of high interval training if they had an advance copy of the newest _Quantic Dream_ game in their possession and their boyfriend’s impressive flatscreen TV at their disposal. Ned’s on speaker, taking notes to pass along to his colleagues.

“Ned’s not one for interactive games but I am, so I finally got us the PS4, you’re gonna love it, Quen,” Peter continues, as his avatar ducks out of the way of an attacker and knocks them down. 

“Awesome, man!” Ned cheers, and only now does Peter notice the firm set of Quen’s jaw. 

“Hey, um, I better go, alright?” he says, and doesn’t give Ned a chance to argue before saving his progress and switching off both the television and his phone. 

Quen sighs and touches the bridge of his nose. “You bought a Play Station?”

“Yeah, I’ve wanted one for ages and never had the right monitor but now it finally makes sense — and look, I got another controller, we can play together, it’ll be fun!” 

Or not, if Quentin’s expression is anything to go by. 

“Babe,” he says, placing his hands on Peters shoulders, “there’s nothing wrong with playing games every now and then, but do you have any idea how much that console costs?”

“Yeah, of course, I bought it,” Peter quips, but Quentin’s grip tightens.

“Don’t be cute. We’re a team, Peter. You can’t just spend a month’s worth of your salary on a toy we’ll barely use without consulting me first.”

“It’s a surprise!”

“Well, it’s a shitty one.” 

That shuts Peter up. 

“Pouting won’t get you outta this, either.”

“What’s the big deal? It’s my money and I’ve been working so much, so I figured I’d get us something –“ 

“Your money? Where’s your money when it comes to utilities?”

Peter blinks. “You said it’s fine.”

“It’s fine until you go waste your money on frivolous shit. Was that a saving goal? Part of your yearly budget? Yeah, that’s what I figured,” Quentin concludes from Peter’s blank stare.

Peter feels very much out of his depth. Saving goal? He watches Quen take a deep breath and swallow down some of the frustration that’s clearly written into the line of his back.

“You’re not very good at handling money, babe, are you?” Quen asks, his tone kind. It sounds a lot like the thoughts rattling around Peter’s brain at the moment. “I’m gonna suggest something and you’re free to decline, but I just want you to consider it, give it some thought. Alright?” 

“Okay…”

“I think we should get a joint account.”

Peter’s gut reaction is _hell no,_ why would they ever do that — but the more Quen explains his reasoning, the more sense it makes. 

They’re living together anyway, so rent and utilities and insurance and stuff is technically a joint expense. Groceries and, let’s face it, all toiletries and sex toys, too. Quen’s been paying the cleaner out of his own pocket, so pooling accounts should balance the scales over the time it takes Peter to earn a decent salary. On that note, Quen also suggests setting up a 401k as soon as Peter’s eligible, and in the meantime start something called a Roth IRA (“Don’t worry babe, I’ll handle it.”). 

First and foremost, however, joint accounts are a whole other level of commitment. 

“I don’t ever wanna leave you, babe,” Quen murmurs against his ear, hand stroking down Peter’s front. “What’s mine is already yours. This just makes it official. It’s the next logical step.”

So they go for it. 

As promised, Quen takes care of the technicalities and they get together to discuss what Quen calls a Conscious Spending Plan – basically, deciding their priorities and committing to adhere to them. Peter does his best to advocate for including new PS4 games every once in a while, but yeah, it’s better to wait until Peter has graduated and is contributing a bit more to their regular income.

Clothing becomes a big part of their budget, though. Ever since Quen’s thesis was approved, he’s advanced to an entirely different league. Pepper Potts herself signed off on Quen’s proposal to develop a holographic illusion system and the end of the year is filled with meetings and business dinners to navigate potential cooperations with other companies. 

Peter hoped at least New Year’s Eve would be different, since he always spends it with May, but no such luck. 

“I need you by my side, babe,” Quen insists, explaining about how being seen with one’s partner signals stability and stuff, and Peter almost would have declined out of spite… 

But then May cancels their plans first during Christmas Day brunch. 

Quen regards her with a smirk. “Someone’s nervous.”

To Peter’s horror, May blushes bright red. 

“I don’t wanna know,” he says loudly, and even sticks his fingers in his ears as May tells Quentin probably sordid details about her date. 

“What, um, what are you doing for New Years, Mr. Barnes?” Peter asks the second day he’s back at work after the most wonderful Christmas since Ben passed. How come Quen’s getting more thoughtful by the day? He went along with all of Peter and May’s strange traditions, didn’t even complain about the hot chocolate they drank and the cinnamon cookies they made in memory of Ben. Also, he gifted Peter the most amazing Ben Wa balls and challenged him to keep quiet enough that they could try them out while May was cooking dinner… 

Anyway, New Years plans. 

Barnes shrugs. “Nothing. Work, maybe. Switch on the blowtorch. Head to bed.”

“Oh.”

“What, you think I’d be heading to Times Square, watch the ball drop? Right,” Bucky snorts, but that wasn’t at all what Peter expected. 

“Um, no, I mean – Steve said he invited you to this thing, up on the highest corporate floor, said that he got Tony’s approval for it and everything –”

“Yeah, had him at ‘open bar’,” Barnes grumbles. “But I ain’t going. No my thing.”

“Why?”

“I look like a social butterfly to you?” 

“But Steve seems under the impression that you agreed to come, so –”

“Cause Steve can’t take no for an answer,” Bucky snaps. “Fucking punk.”

Part of Peter is burning to know what happened, but another, much saner part of him knows when to stop pestering Barnes unless he wants to be sent to help out at waste management for a week. 

It sucks that he can’t go either, not with Quen’s work thing that night, cause it’s been ages since he and Tony had more than bland conversations via text and the occasional work-related run-in in the hallway and… yeah. Peter’s worried. 

Barely a week passes without Tony making headlines for buying rounds for entire clubs on weekends or getting a new car or five. Even without Peter’s previous knowledge about Tony’s tendency to, um, overindulge, he’d have recognized the signs by now. 

“Hey, where’s your head at, babe? I need you present.”

Peter blinks back to the moment, where Quen just finished knotting Peter’s tie and is currently raking his gaze appreciatively along Peter’s body. 

“Damn, you look ravishing,” he purrs, making him blush. 

Considering the money his suit cost, it’d better have him look like a super model. Cause that’s what he’s going for, actually – not only does Quen need to have a partner by his side to show stability, the ‘quality’ of his ‘mate’ also signals his strength to others. 

“I hate it, too, babe,” Quen assures him, “but unfortunately, it is what it is. You gotta follow the rules if you wanna play the game.”

Peter isn’t sure what difference the cut of his suit will make, but then again, he once spent half an hour listening to Tony explain the hierarchy of different fabrics for pocket squares, and he’s none the wiser. Good thing he’s got Quen at his side to keep him right.

Food choices included. 

“The pasta, babe? You sure?” Quen asks later that night, once they’re seated at one of the many tables in the grand ballroom.

“Why not?” Peter says, cause he can’t tell what’s wrong about gnocchi with mushroom sauce.

“You know refined grains for dinner aren’t good for you. Come on, let’s both get the steamed chicken with salad.”

Across from them, Mrs. Reyes chuckles. “You’re much better at that than I am,” she says, nodding towards her husband, whose waistband is considerably larger than Peter’s. 

From lamenting about their respective partners’ awful dietary habits (and yeah, Peter knows he shouldn’t, but some of his colleagues are such amazing bakers and he can’t resist whenever they bring in some treats), they segue into talking business. Peter never tires of seeing Quen in action. He speaks with a passion about his work that’s infectious and can sell even the most brazen offer as the best thing since sliced bread. 

By the time the countdown starts, Peter and Quen are back at home, celebrating the cooperation between Reyes Inc. and SI with Peter riding Quen on the carpet in their living room. 

_Their_ living room. Some days, it’s still surreal. 

“You were perfect, babe,” Quentin pants. “So gorgeous. So smart. I love you so much.”

Peter’s reply is lost to a particular forceful thrust, but he thinks Quen understood regardless. 

*

“You look bored as fuck,” someone says, and Peter coughs around the sip of champagne he forced himself to take. 

The smile of the man who appeared next to him doesn’t waver. 

“Apologies, mate,” he says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

The first thing Peter notices about the stranger – after his Australian accent – is his hair. Some of it is tied into a messy bun, but even then it still falls past his very broad shoulders.

“It’s fine,” Peter manages. 

“Contemporary art not quite your thing?”

“Well…” 

Peter looks around the room filled with two rows of abstract paintings that seem to be united by the theme ‘how many different colors can I use on a single canvas’ and tries to come up with something complimentary to say. For all he knows this guy’s one of the artists – Quen would hate it if he snubbed one of them at the first vernissage they’ve been invited to. 

“Say no more,” the stranger grins. “I don’t understand what people like about my work either.” 

MJ once told him something similar; the last time May roped Peter into helping out with the Red Room, then explained how she thinks that all decent artists are riddled with self-doubt.

“Oh, she’s right on that. I’m Chase, by the way.”

Navigating the exhibition is a lot more entertaining with Chase’s comments, Peter discovers, and no, it’s not just due to the relentless flirting. 

“Look,” Peter finally says after Chase brushed against his side ‘by accident’ for the fifth time. “I’m flattered, really, but I’m here with my partner.”

The other man doesn’t miss a beat. “Even better. The more, the merrier, eh?” 

Of course that’s the moment that Quen slides up to Peter, immediately placing a reassuring arm around his waist. 

“Hey babe, who’s your new friend?”

“A celebrated artist and a relentless flirt,” Chase says, offering his hand. “You must be Peter’s lucky partner.”

“Charmed,” Quen says. 

It takes Peter a moment to realize he sounds sincere. Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches Quen’s gaze rake over Chase’s body. He’s in dress pants and a white shirt that accentuates his muscled torso, top buttons undone in a way that should look improper but somehow isn’t. 

Chase drinks in all the attention without so much as blushing. Peter swallows. He’s rarely met a more confident individual, except maybe Quen – 

But that’s a dangerous thought to follow. 

Or is it? 

“If you guys are looking to turn this into a night you’ll never forget,” Chase says, leaning closer, “stick around for another ten minutes. I’ll be able to leave by then.”

He saunters off, probably very aware that both Quen and Peter’s eyes are tracing him.

Quen turns towards him with a smirk. “Someone’s changed his tune.”

“How’d you – what? No,” Peter stammers, already feeling the flush creep up his neck. “I wasn’t… I love _you_, I don’t –”

But Quen shushes him. “I know, babe. I love you, too. But this isn’t about love. Just lust. Come on, babe, I saw the way you looked at him. You were positively eye-fucking him right there…”

“What, no!”

“It’s alright, babe,” Quentin says. He strokes his fingers against Peter’s cheek. “No need to blush. I don’t mind. In fact…” He lowers his voice and brushes his lips against the shell of Peter’s ear, “I like it.”

Peter tries to turn, but the hand cradling his jaw keeps him from meeting Quen’s eyes. 

“Think about it, babe,” he whispers. “All that strength ramming into you… I bet he’s got a glorious cock. Bet you’d look so pretty sucking him off while I’m playing with your ass.”

An involuntary shudder courses through Peter’s body and there’s no way he’ll be able to tell Quen that he’s not already half-hard at the mental image…

“I get it, babe,” Quen says. “You used to think it’s not for you, but damn, I can tell your body disagrees. Come on, it’s alright. I want it, too.”

Barely a split-second passes before Peter nods against Quen’s cheek. 

*

The way from the gallery in Chelsea to their apartment isn’t long, something for which the taxi driver seems decidedly grateful for. 

Peter doubts he would have managed to keep his hands to himself for even a minute longer, not with Quen on one side of him and Chase pressed against the other. 

They remain close all throughout the slow elevator ride to the fifth floor. Peter slips out first, hurriedly fumbling for his keys. 

“Someone’s eager,” Chase purrs behind him. 

Peter hears Quentin chuckle just as he unlocks the door. 

“So, um,” he tries, then has to pause to gather his thoughts. “Would you like a drink?”

Chase shakes his head. One of his hands is toying with the buttons of his shirt, the other resting against his belt buckle. 

Quen saves Peter from any prolonged awkward stammering by… oh. Taking off his shirt. 

Chase whistles. “Someone’s keeping fit.”

“You should see him,” Quen says, and nods towards Peter, who doesn’t get it. 

Until he does. He’s sure the flush extends way down his chest but he guesses Chase doesn’t mind. Otherwise he never would have followed them home. 

“Let me,” Chase says, and suddenly there are unfamiliar fingers opening his shirt and pulling it out of his dress pants. Chase hums when he sees Peter’s chest exposed, then reaches out. 

The first touch startles Peter and sends a shiver through his body. Amused, Chase continues, teasing his nipples to hardness then dipping lower, past his navel and down the front of his pants. 

Peter gasps when Chase’s hand cups him through the fabric and gives a light squeeze. 

Suddenly, Quen is behind him, chest to Peter’s back and hands on his hips. “Let’s move this to the bedroom,” he whispers.

How Peter manages to get to the other room without stumbling will forever be a mystery. His legs feel weak. Only Quen’s hands keep him tethered. 

“You got a hanger I can burrow?” Chase asks as they reach the door. “Got to look respectable when I leave later, eh?”

“Of course,” Quen says, then nudges Peter towards the closet, where he spends a second or two rerouting his blood flow to his brain cells so he can fetch hangers for everyone’s formal wear. It’s all quite matter-of-fact, the way they’re getting undressed, and yet there’s an undercurrent of tension that has Peter tremble with anticipation. 

Or maybe that’s the outline of Chase’s erection against the dark fabric of his briefs. 

Chase catches Peter’s eyes on him. He quirks a brow. “Wanna taste?”

Immediately, Peter looks to Quen, who is obviously very much on board with this plan. He offers him a reassuring smile and a nod. 

So Peter steps towards the other man, pulse racing, until he’s right in front of him. He’s never touched another man than Quen before, let alone blown him, but gawd, Chase is like right out of one of the porn clips Quen and he sometimes watch. 

Peter starts out tentative – mapping the width of his shoulders, the curve of his pecks. When he’s calmed his breathing, he sinks to his knees, eyes never leaving Chase’s. 

He knows he can’t assume the man has the same preferences as Quentin, but it’s as good a place to start as any. Besides, he’s still working up the courage to actually pull down Chase’s underwear. 

Hands on his hips, Peter leans forward, then trails kisses along the outline of his shaft. 

He hears Chase hum, which is encouraging. He slips his fingers underneath the hem of the briefs and tugs. 

‘Glorious’ would definitely be the word Peter would use to describe Chase’s cock – it’s strong and tall like the rest of him, the tip glistening and inviting. He exchanges one more look with Quen, then looks up at Chase… and licks. 

The taste on his tongue is different, but good, and Peter finds that he enjoys hearing Chase gasp because of what he’s doing just as much as when it’s Quen above him. The thought makes him blush, which prompts a moan. 

“He can take more,” Quen says, from near the bed. “No need to treat him like he’s gonna break.”

“Oh yeah,” Chase murmurs, then places his hands on either side of Peter’s head. The first thrust is tentative, testing the waters, but Peter’s mastered the art of deepthroating long ago. 

With Quentin, it’s just the head of his cock that hits the back of Peter’s throat and he can tighten his muscles around the glands. Chase, however, is bigger and thicker, which makes it trickier, but the sounds his partners make are well worth the effort. 

“Damn, you’re something else,” Chase says when he eventually pulls away. He runs a hand through Peter’s hair while he catches his breath, still on his knees. “I’m sure your ass would take me beautifully, eh? How about it?”

At that, Quentin rises from the mattress. He must have removed his underwear at some point since Peter can see his cock is flush with arousal. 

That tips the scales. 

“I,” he says, then has to swallow around his dry throat. “I’d like that.”

“Come here, babe,” Quen says, and Peter follows. Quen’s pupils are already dilated. “I’m gonna prep you real good. Open you up nice and wide for his cock. You’re gonna feel so good, babe. Get the lube.” 

Peter quickly crosses the distance to the nightstand. When he turns back around, Quen’s stroking a hand down Chase’s front, lingering on his abs. 

“And what’re you gonna do, mate?” Chase asks with a playful smirk. “You just gonna watch?”

“I’ll fill him up from the other end.”

They’ve done it like that before, but always with toys. If he asks real nice, Quen even gets out the prostate massager. But another real cock, fucking into him while he feels Quen twitch against his lips… damn. 

Yet the jolt of arousal that image sends through Peter’s body stutters to an abrupt halt when Chase tips his head and captures Quen’s lips in a kiss. 

Peter’s no stranger to jealousy. Quen’s hot and smart and successful – it would be weird if people didn’t flirt with him. And sure, he knew on some level that adding someone to their mix would involve the guy touching Quen… but expecting it and seeing it are two different things entirely. 

He quickly tosses the bottle of lube onto the mattress and is back at Quen’s side before his mind has caught up with his feet. 

Quen chuckles, but immediately abandons Chase in favor of Peter.

“Don’t worry, babe. I’m here. Come on.”

He ends up in Quentin’s lap, able to brace himself either on his shoulders or the headboard, and tries to loose himself in the familiar pleasure of Quen’s fingers stretching him open. 

Meanwhile, Chase has unearthed a condom from their drawer. Peter hears him put it on behind him and shudders. 

“Yeah, babe, that’s it, relax for us, you’re gonna look so gorgeous… You ready, babe, tell me when you’re ready…”

His stomach clenches, but Peter knows that’s just nerves. They’ll pass. He nods, then scoots backwards until he’s on all fours, head level with Quentin’s groin. 

“You got a brilliant ass,” Chase says – and promptly bites his cheek. 

Peter’s breath hitches and Quentin laughs, but already there are large hands caressing his skin. 

“That’s it, pretty thing,” Chase says. “Relax. Relax for me…Oh yeah…”

“You ready, babe? Ready to feel his cock inside you?”

Peter nods, gaze never leaving Quentin’s. Chase takes his time, seems to savor every inch he guides inside Peter, giving him time to adjust and breathe just as Quentin’s taught him. It takes longer for the pain to give way to pleasure with Chase, but when the point comes, it’s no less amazing. 

Soon, Chase has built a rhythm, slow and steady, hands roaming Peter’s back and gripping his thighs.

“So fuckin’ tight,” Chase pants. 

“Oh yeah,” Quen says. “Look at him, he loves it.”

Part of Peter wants to point out that hello, he’s right here, but then Quen takes himself in hand, the invitation clear. Peter wastes no time. Coordinating their movements is a bit awkward, and he’s grateful when Quen starts to guide the bobbing of his head. 

His world narrows to their points of contact, to Chase’s hands on his hips, the slapping sound of his balls against Peter’s skin, the weight of Quentin on his tongue. It becomes easier to let himself fall with every thrust, every brush of Chase’s cock against his prostate, every moan he tears from Quentin. 

Chase comes first, on a final, forceful thrust that leaves him draped across Peter’s back. 

Instead of pulling out, however, Chase stays like that, whispering encouragements into Peter’s shoulders and snaking a hand around his body to jerk him off in time to the pace of Quentin’s hips. 

When Quen’s breathing grows erratic, Peter pulls off without being asked. While Quen likes coming down his throat, he’s got a thing for facials, and something in Peter yearns to feel Quen’s release on his skin. 

“Oh yeah,” Chase says, “sure he looks good covered in come.” 

“Tilt his head up,” Quen says, on his knees by now and stroking his cock. 

The light pain of Chase tugging on Peter’s hair makes him moan, then whimper when Chase puts more force behind it. 

“Don’t come yet,” Quen pants, and by now it’s no effort at all to obey. Quen never withholds orgasms from him, Peter knows, merely delays them to make them all the more intense. 

“I bet you’d love to come, babe, don’t you, bet you’re gagging for it…”

“Yeah, I –” Peter’s response morphs into a groan cause _fuck_, Chase’s slipped two fingers inside him beside his cock and it hurts, but it puts renewed pressure on his prostate, and Peter can feel his balls drawing up with his impending orgasms but no, fuck, he can’t, he’s not allowed – 

“Please,” he begs, unable to care about the way his eyes are watering from the strain. “Please, Quen, please let me come…”

With a guttural moan, Quen topples over the edge. Peter feels every stripe of warm fluid that hits his chest and face and he whines cause he can’t hold back, not with Chase’s hands all over him, but then he hears Quen whisper permission. 

Peter feels Chase slip from his ass at the exact same moment and that’s it, he’s done. 

He somehow manages to stay upright during the aftershocks but is more than relieved when Chase guides him down into a horizontal position. Peter’s facing Quen, so he catches the look of pure satisfaction in his features. 

Any lingering reservations he had about this vanish on the spot. 

He smiles into their kiss, and relishes the warmth of Chase against his back. 

It’s no wonder he dozes off. 

When he comes back to, the first thing he notices is the absence of a body next to him. The second is even more disconcerting – sounds of flesh hitting flesh, and the familiar little gasps that Quentin makes when he’s…

Peter blinks his eyes open.

Sure enough, there Quen is, fucking into Chase from behind. 

“Look who’s back,” he says when he notices Peter’s awake. 

“Hello, pretty thing,” Chase says, and somehow the nickname rubs Peter the wrong way. 

He doesn’t wanna make a scene in the middle of this, though, so he bites his tongue and tries to see what Quen saw when Chase fucked him. Granted, it’s hot, watching the two men move together, seeing Chase’s large cock hard and heavy between his legs. But why was Quen so excited about this? 

Maybe, Peter thinks as he takes in Quen’s aroused expression, it was cause he got so see Peter’s pleasure from a new angle? See him like he never has before? 

Quen definitely makes a sight to behold, positioned behind Chase who’s propping himself up on his elbows. It’s an entirely different thing to see him like this, rather than via their reflection in the bedroom mirror, when they’re in the same position.

“I think I fucked his brain right outta him,” Chase says, and Peter realizes he’s spent the last few seconds zoned out. 

“Believe me,” Quentin says, “it takes more than that to wear him out.”

“Wanna try?”

Chase turns his neck enough to meet Quentin’s eyes over his back, and a wicked grin passes between them that has Peter shudder for reasons he refuses to examine more closely. He loves Quentin, and if this is a fantasy for him, Peter will try his best to fulfill it. Just like Quen once fucked him while he was wearing silk panties (something that wasn’t as pleasing as porn had made it out to be). That’s what relationships are all about, aren’t they? 

So Peter obliges when Quentin tells him to get out his favorite vibrator and slicks it up. Some maneuvering later and Peter’s propped up against the headboard, a pillow at his back, and the vibrator’s in Chase’s hands. Quentin slows his pace while Chase tests the functions, grinning at the different intensities. 

“Can he come from this?” Chase asks. “Hands-free?”

“Oh yeah,” Quen says. “When you do it right.”

Peter has to close his eyes when Chase breaches him with the toy. It’s simple but effective, managing to fill him in the most pleasant way. Usually Quen tells him to use it when he’s in the mood for a show, but now it’s someone else controlling the movements and vibrations. 

“There he is,” Chase hums when Peter’s cock has hardened enough to lift from his stomach. “What do I do if I wanna hear more of his pretty little moans?”

“Set it to max,” Quen says, which is all the warning Peter gets before pleasure crashes into him, wave after wave after wave. 

He’s moaning, yeah, can’t help it. His hand twitches towards his erection but Chase slaps his fingers away. 

“Hands-free,” he reminds him, groaning at Peter’s answering whine. 

He’s done it – multiple times, in fact – and it tends to be over quickly, but tonight it takes longer for his arousal to reach its peak. He comes all over his abs and thighs, dimly aware of the appreciative comments from Quen and Chase that give way to moans as they pursue release of their own. 

Quen seems to be in a generous mood for he brings Chase off first, stroking his cock in counter-rhythm to his thrusts, then presses Chase into the mattress and fucks into him with renewed vigor. He comes with a guttural moan, deep inside the other man, and collapses onto his side with a grin. 

“Definitely a night we’ll never forget,” Quen says. “Right, babe?”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, though he’s not sure it’s for the same reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlenhiver's official subtitle for this chapter: _it’s gotta get worse before it gets better… *gulps* *while salivating a little too*_
> 
> Next update to follow around New Year's :)


	9. nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! I am not kidding, this is my favourite chapter so far, and I'm so glad that this gets to be my first update in 2020! By happy accident, the chapter is also set around New Year's Eve. 
> 
> In other news, I finally chose courage over comfort, stopped thinking and just went for it... I started posting on YouTube. If you're curious to put a face to the author's name here, or want to add even more content to your media diet, you can find me [here](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC7FPub9MVWP38DAriwXRQHQ/).
> 
> //self-promotion over
> 
> ENJOY THE CHAPTER!

Quentin never calls Peter during class. He might text if he’s in the mood, but he never calls when he knows Peter is supposed to be focusing on his education. 

So seeing Quen’s name light up the display of his (thankfully muted) StarkPhone during Advanced Fluid Mechanics makes Peter fear the worst. 

“Quen?” he answers, out of breath since he just dashed into the hallway. “What happened?”

“I did it, babe. I actually did it.”

Peter feels his jaw drop. “For real?”

“No, this is my idea of a prank call,” Quentin huffs. “_Of course_ for real. Did you ever doubt me?”

“Never,” Peter says, meaning it. If anyone can develop the technology to tap a person’s memory and recreate a holographic projection that mimics said memory, it’s his boyfriend. 

“Good. You shouldn’t. Anyway – let’s celebrate. Dinner at Cho’s, six o’clock.”

“Um, but I got –”

“Right, right, Mechatronics. But you can skip just once, babe, can’t you? Please? The moment I saw it’s done, all I wanted to do was be with you.”

Peter feels his resolve melt within a heartbeat. 

As he later discovers, Quen’s success is just the first of many, many breakthroughs he needs to invent in order to get current technology up to speed with his ideas, but it’s not like he’s under too much pressure. 

“Pepper was quite understanding,” Quen explains. “Guess all that time dealing with Stark taught her a thing or two about geniuses.”

Well, technically Tony tends to be most inspired when he’s operating under temporal constraints, or so he said… but Peter doubts arguing will contribute anything to this conversation. Yet while the pressure might not be too crushing in Quen’s case, it’s strong enough to keep him at work later and later. 

“Can’t we skip brunch, babe?” he suggests one Saturday, when he returns way past 9pm. “I just wanna spend time with you. Nothing against your aunt, I love her, but…”

“Yeah,” Peter says, and all too happily texts May that he’s sorry but they won’t be able to come tomorrow. 

May’s reply is a ‘No problem’ and a winking emoji… which, huh? 

“Maybe she’s glad to have a free Sunday?” Quentin says. “You notice she’s been updating her wardrobe lately?”

“Um…”

“Of course you didn’t,” Quen chuckles, ruffling Peter’s hair affectionately. “But trust me, she has. Almost like she’s putting herself back on the market.”

“You mean… dating? Again?”

“Don’t sound so horrified, babe.”

Thing is, though, he isn’t. It’s just that, in the past weeks, several people in Peter’s life have withdrawn from him a bit due to their personal lives. 

First was Ned, who changed jobs in June and promptly fell in love with his neighbor when the bump in salary allowed him to move into a bigger apartment. With time zones and everything going on in Peter’s life, it’s been ages since their schedules overlapped enough for a Skype call. 

Then there’s Shuri, who sent the company’s rumor mill into overdrive when she was seen with Everett Kenneth Ross. The textbook definition of a cis white male if ever there was one – he’s even done several tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, according to his Wikipedia page – but also working for Oscorp, SI’s biggest rival in defense technologies. She’s begun adhering more to her official work hours, even taking off an entire weekend last month, allegedly to ‘have herself a mental health day or two’. 

Peter wouldn’t mind if at least Mr. Barnes remained as reliable as Peter’s grown accustomed to... but no such luck. Some evenings, it takes until midnight for Peter to receive a reply to a question he posed or a comment he made hours ago. For the longest time, Peter feared it was a sign that Bucky was severely ill… but then he saw a love bite on his neck one Monday morning. 

Three cheers for him, seriously, but… Well, Peter misses his mentor, if he’s being honest. 

“It’s time you move past that anyway,” is all Quentin has to say. “You’re halfway through your degree. You’ll be a third-year co-op student in a bit, babe. You gotta learn to stand on your own two feet.”

Peter sighs. “I guess…”

“Don’t guess,” Quen says, placing a kiss on the corner of Peter’s lips. “Do.”

It’s empowering, Peter finds, to have to think and act more autonomously. He’s given a project of his own, a mere two months into his third year, and finds himself in charge of prosthetic maintenance for half of their test subjects. Barnes takes care of the more complicated limbs and joints himself, but feet and legs are all under Peter’s preview. 

“A pity you didn’t stay with holographics, babe. At least then we’d have shared a lab.”

Some days, Peter regrets it, too, but he can’t deny that his talents don’t lie where Quen’s do. He needs physical objects to tinker with, not settings on a monitor to calibrate. 

“Keep that up and J’s gonna lock you outta here,” Tony says, raising the ever-present glass of whatever liquor of the month in salute. “You sure you don’t want one? It’s really good.”

Peter shakes his head. 

Ever since Tony’s return to single life and the partying circuit, companies have showered him with free samples of their booze on the off-chance Tony features their products in one of his posts on social media or is photographed with it. Peter has tried to talk to his friend about moderation and the risks of addiction but wasn’t surprised when his words fell on deaf ears. 

‘The person’s gotta be ready for help,’ Ben always explained. ‘Pressing them’s the most assured way to drive them even further away.’

In his time as probation officer, his uncle worked with enough people who had substance abuse problems for Peter to know it’s best to trust his judgement, even years later. It’s more difficult when it affects someone he cares about, though. 

“You act like that’s news,” Victoria sneers the day after several gossip rags declared Tony an addict for the first time in the wake of a fellow celebrity’s birthday party. “Everyone at SI with half a brain cell knows Stark’s a high-functioning alcoholic.”

“May he drink himself into an early grave!” Quen says, followed by cheers and the clinking of glasses. 

Peter wonders if anyone beside him sees the irony. 

He bites his tongue after that, though. It helps that December is upon them, bringing with it a tidal wave of celebrations, parties, charity galas... all of which Quen needs to attend, either in an official capacity for Stark Industries or as a result of the connections he’s been forging. 

The ensuing increase of their clothing budget has less fashionable consequences, however.

“Thai?” Quentin repeats, peering over Peter’s shoulder at the steaming plates. “Why?”

“Why not?” 

“Couldn’t you have cooked?”

Peter shrugs and starts setting the table. “Yeah, but I was in the mood for wasabi stir fry, and we didn’t have any paste left.”

“Then you could’ve picked some up at the store on your way back from class.”

“I didn’t know! Only decided when I got home.” Peter sets the second plate down with more force than necessary. “What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” Quen says, crossing his arms in that frustrated way of his that sends a pang of regret through Peters stomach, “is that it’s pennies on the dollar to make these dishes at home. I thought you realized we’d have to cut back a little, Peter. Or were you not there when I bought you a three-hundred-dollar suit?”

“I… Yeah, but...”

“But you didn’t think,” Quen finishes. 

Peter hangs his head, cause Quen’s right. In retrospect, it’s obvious.

“Come on, look at me,” Quen says, and Peter does so immediately. “It’s not the end of the world. And I’m sorry that I didn’t make sure we’re on the same page, babe, so let’s rectify that.”

“I’m sorry, too. It... I should’ve realized.”

“How can you be so smart in some respects but so dumb in others?” Quentin wonders, his tone caught between exasperation and fondness. Peter blushes. “Alright, babe, let’s talk about it over dinner.”

In the end, they agree that Peter will take over groceries and cooking as often as possible, with Quen pitching in on the weekends should he be home at a reasonable hour. 

“Aren’t you glad I taught you how to cook?” Quen whispers later when they’re on the couch, Peter straddling him. “Imagine if we’d gotten into this unprepared, babe.”

“Unthinkable,” Peter jokes, and quickly stops any further discussion with a kiss. 

*

The final day of 2018 greets Tony with glaring sunlight and crick in his neck. 

That’s what he gets for falling asleep on the penthouse sofa – before even finishing his drink, he realizes, and promptly drains the contents of the glass that sits on the table in front of him. 

It’s as good a breakfast as any, he figures, and stumbles his way to the bathroom for a quick shower since he’s already late. Of-fucking-course this year ends on a Monday.

“How kind of you to join us,” Carol says when he finally reaches his office.

“Us?” he wonders, but spots the third party a moment later: Rogers from Marketing, dressed in slacks and one of his annoyingly slim-fitted shirts, waiting patiently in a chair in front of Tony’s desk. _Wonderful_. 

“Ah, my weekly Ted Talk on appropriate adult behavior,” he says with an eye-roll. “You sure you don’t wanna record a video version? You gotta have better things to do with your time.”

Steve merely smiles. “It’s a big day.”

“Isn’t it always,” Tony murmurs. 

Damn, he needs second breakfast. He doesn’t even bother asking Rogers or Carol if they want a drink, since they have never ever accepted. The definition of madness, and all that. 

“Sir,” Carol says, with a pointed look at his bourbon. “There will be press tonight.”

“Then I better watch my consumption _then_.” Tony takes a sip. Damn, being a billionaire has its advantages. “Wouldn’t wanna start the new year off with a scandal.”

Steve’s still sitting, but give it a few – yeah, there he goes, back on his feet. Apparently holding a position below his colleagues ain’t something the man can endure for long.

“Indeed.” Steve clears his throat. “Mr. Stark, have you given any more consideration to –”

“Yes, and the answer’s still n-o-p-e, Rogers.”

“Sir –”

“No,” Tony snaps, slamming his glass down on the desk with a satisfying _thump_. “Screw you and the high horse you rode in on. And screw Bucky for telling you shit I told him _in confidence_.”

“He’s sorry about –”

“I don’t care,” Tony cuts him off. He’s beyond apologies when it comes to Barnes. What kind of best friend just stabs you in the back like that?

“It’s a good thing he spoke up,” Steve says, cause hell would freeze over before the guy ever thinks of backing down. “When we know what the problem is, we can work on a solution.”

“But there is no problem! Don’t you get it? Barnes fuck every last brain cell outta your head?”

It’s a reward to see Steve’s nostrils flare, but unfortunately that’s all Tony’s insults provoke. 

“Mr. Barnes is worried about your health, sir,” Carol says while Rogers is still busy taking calming breaths. “As are we all.”

“Well, thanks, but you’re wasting your time. Now,” Tony says, assuming his place behind the desk. “What charitable photo ops do I get to suffer through this New Year’s Eve?”

Too many, of course, but Tony knew that already. They get worse every year.

Don’t get him wrong, he’d never stop contributing insane amounts of money to several of New York’s best non-profits, but shouldn’t that allow him to bow out of the publicity stunts?  
Well, considering what the tabloids are calling him these days, he kinda gets why Rogers is adamant he polish his image. Besides, Pepper will have his balls if he causes their stock to go down any more points. 

So he smiles at the cameras and shakes hands and pretends like he doesn’t have a thousand better things to do, things that would actually yield some progress, not just look good in the press.

And hey, he doesn’t have a drink all morning. He could’ve declined the wine at lunch without problem, but if you’re dining with the Mayor, you gotta have something to toast to a new year of favorable policies, right? 

Pepper disagrees, to the surprise of exactly no one, and refuses on his behalf when the waitress wants to refill Tony’s glass right before dessert. 

Fine. He doesn’t need a forth. 

He also doesn’t need the two flutes of champagne foisted upon him when he stops by the Hilton for… something, nor does he need the gin tonic he makes himself as an appetizer when he changes for his company’s very own celebration. 

He would’ve been perfectly fine without a single drink today. Tony savors what he consumes. He likes feeling a little buzz. There’s nothing wrong with casual drinking – it might as well be America’s national sport. 

“Sir,” JARVIS’ voice interrupts his brooding, “Ms. Potts asked me to remind you to be there –”

“Half an hour early, yeah, I know.”

Why the fuck she does, he has no clue, but he’s still repenting for breaking up with her so soon after proposing and the resulting chaos, so he does his best to obey her every whim. 

Now that those whims are only related to official business, though, Tony finds them a lot less chafing.

The party is a tedious event, held for the entire company. One of those things that make them the most desired workplace in their sector, while also being horribly depressing. Celebrations should be saved for when they’re earned, Tony thinks bitterly, not a scheduled perk so that employees who otherwise do nothing more than the minimum required of them can stroke each other’s cocks. Or vagina’s. Or other genitals. 

Anyway – Tony might have disagreed with Howard on many things, but on that topic they both saw eye to eye. 

What makes his company’s New Year’s shebang even more unbearable is the romantic rituals surrounding it. Tony hates being conscripted into doing anything, especially public displays of affection. It was bad enough when he and Pep had to be seen out in public all lovey-dovey after one infidelity rumor or other. 

_Should be glad I’ve gotten out of it this year,_ he thinks bitterly, watching Pepper dance with some guy from the Board who’s had his beady little eyes on her for years. Tony doesn’t regret ending things between them but seeing her laugh and run a hand through her hair when talking to another man still makes his gut clench. 

It’s less intense than he expected it to be. Three cheers for progress, eh? 

That deserves a drink. 

*

Tony catches sight of Peter about an hour into the party, then quickly loses him to his own mingling obligations. 

When they finally cross paths, it’s at the once lavish buffet, decimated by a hoard of eager guests: Peter’s squinting at the options left, lips pursed. He’s grown into wearing suits a little, yet Tony doesn’t miss the practiced way in which the kid holds himself. Tony remembers those days, back when his lessons on proper posture clashed with his natural impulses. From what Tony has seen, Peter would be much more comfortable in denim and a t-shirt. 

And apparently with a different selection in front of him. 

“The organic apple broccoli salad not to your liking?” Tony says, startling the kid if only for a moment. 

Peter’s pursed lips break into a smile. “Hey Tony.”

His eyes dart towards the glass in Tony’s hands and he braces himself for another well-meaning comment… that never comes. 

Instead, Peter licks his lips and turns his gaze back towards the food. “It’s too much fructose this late in the day. Why do all the salads have fruit in them?”

“Beats me,” Tony says. “Shoulda saved them for the chocolate fountain.”

Which ran out of fruit to dip into the molten streams within two hours of the event. Last time Pepper hired that catering firm, for sure. 

“Or the pizza slices,” Peter quips, and that prompts another rehash of an argument they’ve had several times before. How someone as smart as Peter can think pineapple on pizza is a good idea, Tony will never figure out. 

Or why he’s still with Beck, for that matter. From what Tony’s seen and heard, they’re on less even footing than ever. And now Peter’s worrying his lip between his teeth cause he can’t simply bring back _any_ salad to please his boyfriend, it’s gotta meet some ridiculous standards the kid himself doesn’t even believe in. 

“You should go for the apple broccoli one,” Tony says. “Or just taste it. I swear it’s amazing. Come on, kid. Live a little.”

Peter chuckles, and – success! – actually moves towards the respective bowl. 

He hums in surprise at the first taste, then quickly goes back for a second. 

“See,” Tony smirks. “Never doubt a genius.”

“Babe,” a voice says from behind them, “what’re you doing?”

Tony would have bet a sizable portion of his automobile collection that Peter’s reply was going to be something along the lines of, ‘Eating a salad,’ accompanied by that innocent expression he uses to get out of trouble whenever he proves what a sassy shit he can be. 

Nothing like that happens, however. 

Peter freezes, turns, and looks at his boyfriend with a guilty expression. “I, um, I just wanted to try it.”

Beck’s an enticing sight in his tailored suit and artfully disheveled hair, granted, but the sheer superior air around him takes away any bonus points Tony might have awarded him for at least being nice to look at. 

“By inhaling half of what’s left? Babe,” he says again, this time with a tone of an exasperated parent who’s given up on ever getting through to their child. 

“Sorry, Quen,” Peter mumbles, and quickly places his plate on a free spot on the table for the staff to clean. 

Only then does Beck turn towards Tony. He feigns surprise incredibly well. Anyone other than Tony might have been fooled by his act. 

“Oh, Mr. Stark, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. It’s a pleasure to meet you again, sir.”

“Likewise,” Tony manages. 

“Peter’s told me so much about you,” Beck continues, and opens the arm not holding a champagne flute to draw Peter close. If Beck were a dog, he’d be peeing all over the place. Seriously, what’s the guy’s problem? 

“Only the audacious bits, I hope,” Tony parries and sips from his gin tonic. Wait, why’d he go for gin? Shoulda ordered something with rum. Or tequila. Beck’s presence might become more tolerable with tequila. 

“Ms. Potts also speaks very highly of your skills in bioengineering.”

“Glad to hear that,” Tony says. “Somehow she’s never mentioned you, though. What’re you working on right now?”

It’s fun to see Beck bristle while trying to hide it, and even more fun to quiz him about his progress by pointing out all the milestones he has yet to reach. 

He could’ve gone on indefinitely, no matter how uncomfortable the conversation is obviously making Peter, since taking snotty engineers with inflated egos down a notch or thirty has been one of Tony’s missions ever since he was allowed to attend his first conference at eleven.

But no such luck – when the music changes to a more current song, Beck pauses, then smiles at Peter. 

“Babe, our song.”

Based on Peter’s reaction, it’s a big fat lie, but Tony lets them slip away to join the crowd on the dance floor. They must have kept up whatever training they did since their movements are as fluid and harmonious as the last time Tony saw them, or even more so. Peter doesn’t miss a step as he has a whispered conversation with his partner.

Tony wonders what Beck’s telling him. Maybe, ’Sorry, babe, but I had to get away. My ego can’t take prolonged exposure to superior minds.’

He grins at the thought. A moment later, the anger is back. On the dance floor, Peter’s clearly apologizing, eyes big and rueful and so genuinely guilty that it makes Tony’s skin itch. Can’t the kid see it? Is he so blinded by love? 

Tony spots Pepper clink glasses with a woman from Logistics and feels a pang in his chest. 

Fortunately, Shuri interrupts that particular train of thought before he can grow too maudlin. She’s been dragging some short, blond guy around the room for the past two hours, and apparently Tony’s her last stop before the countdown. 

He immediately feels several eyes on them. But why, for fuck’s sake – oh, right. Everett Ross works for Oscorp. Ha, like Tony’d be worried about corporate espionage from a guy who has intentions towards T’Challa’s sister and is still breathing. The guy’s overprotectiveness towards those he holds dear is as legendary as it is stifling. 

“Wanna count with us, boss?” Shuri offers, at five minutes to midnight. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t wanna distract you from shoving your tongue down his throat,” Tony says. 

Ross blinks but says nothing. Yeah, Shuri knows how to pick ‘em. 

Tony excuses himself, intending to head to the bar, though every single guest seems to have had the same impulse. Peter’s still with Beck, the guy’s fingers caressing Peter’s hand where it rests on his chest, swaying to the slow music. Pepper is… not his concern, he tells himself.

Neither Bucky nor Rogers showed up – for which Tony is grateful – and Carol and Happy both have the day off to spend with their loved ones. Or their maybe-one-day-this-becomes-serious-enough-to-warrant-the-l-word… people. All Tony knows is that Happy’s quite taken with his new acquaintance. Apparently, they met when Happy delivered a check to the Red Room.  
Other people might have been miserable to find themselves so alone on New Year’s Eve, but not Tony. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s glad, yet with no reason to stick around, he can get the hell out of here. DUM-E’s maintenance won’t finish itself, just as the divine selection of whisky needs someone for the actual tasting.

It used to be their tradition, ever since their first year together: Rhodey had taken Tony up on his invitation to spend New Year’s with him, not realizing he’d agreed to help Tony survive his family’s ridiculously extravagant festivities by spending a laid-back evening with his best friend.

Long story short – they raided Howard’s liquor cabinet. More specifically, they found the best whisky he owned. 

It didn’t end well. And yet, the year after, they did it again. 

Rhodey’s not with him anymore, sure, and it still hurts to this day, but Tony can keep him alive in memory. It’s the least he can do.

“Cheers,” Tony mumbles to himself, and downs the contents of his glass in one go. 

DUM-E chirps in reply. His locomotion system is currently getting a thorough clean, so he can’t roll up to Tony and bump against him like he probably wants to. 

“I know, buddy,” Tony says. “I miss him, too.”

He would have sat there, drinking his way through the small bottles and wallowing in his thoughts until the break of dawn, if it weren’t for the sudden sound of footsteps.

Tony startles briefly, then sags back against the worktable he’s leaning on. 

“What’re you doing here, kid?”

Peter comes to a stop within two feet of him. This close, Tony can see the places where his hair is mussed or his shirt has creased, as well as the subtle trace of beard burn on the kid’s neck. 

Tony quickly turns back to his drink. 

“You, um, you shouldn’t be alone.”

“Why, cause I might overindulge?” he sneers, only then lifting his gaze. “Believe me, kid, I can hold my drink. No need to worry that I’d –”

“No, no,” Peter hurries to say. “I just… No one should start the new year alone.”

_Oh._

“Then how come you’re here? Where’s your lesser half?”

“Don’t call him that.”

Tony merely smirks. 

Peter sighs. “He’s talking to Ms. Potts. And someone from the Board? And, uh, it’s better when I’m not there.”

“Cause you’d outshine him in a heartbeat?”

“What?”

Tony would roll his eyes if Peter’s expression weren’t so genuinely puzzled. He could – no. He’s not touching this with a ten-foot pole. So he says, “Never mind. And don’t mind the miniatures, either,” he adds when he sees Peter’s gaze straying to the row of empty bottles. “They’re for Rhodey.”

Peter’s brow only furrows further, so Tony explains about his little remembrance ceremony. In the end, he even convinces Peter to join him for a drink. 

“To Rhodey,” Tony says. 

“To Rhodey,” Peter echoes, all solemn and serious, clinks his glass to Tony’s, takes a sip… and promptly succumbs to a coughing fit. “Ugh, how – is it supposed to taste like tar?”

“Ha, yes, kid. This one’s renowned for its ‘smoky flavor’.”

The look of absolute disgust on Peter’s face is hilarious. Tony only stops laughing when Peter’s finished with questioning the sanity of every whisky aficionado who pays more than a few bucks for the stuff, saying, “How can you drink the entire bottle?”

“Not a bottle, it’s a tasting size,” Tony corrects and ignores the irksome way Peter’s question resonates with him by tossing said (now empty) miniature towards Peter. “Besides, I’m savoring it. Don’t make it sound like I’m some cheap drunkard whose only meaning in life’s to get his next fix. Cause I’m not, I run a Fortune 500 company, for fuck’s sake, and I –”

Tony forces himself to stop. It’s not Peter he’s angry with, after all, but certain fucks living in his tower. And working for him in various capacities. 

He takes a deep breath and tightens the grip on his glass. Peter remains blissfully silent. 

Well. For a few moments. 

“My, uh, my uncle,” he starts, and Tony braces himself for another heart-wrenching tale about Ben Parker being the best parental figure anyone could have ever wished for (and that Tony is not jealous of in the slightest). 

Yet as Peter continues, Tony gradually realizes it’s not really about his uncle this time around.

“He was a probation officer, right? So he had to deal with some pretty dangerous people, but not always. This, uh, this one man, he was a lawyer at a big firm and had a wife and three kids and was paying for his parents’ nursing home and… So yeah, he had a life, he functioned. But he was also –” Peter hesitates. “An alcoholic.”

_Oh jeez, not the kid as well._

Tony pushes off the worktable in a heartbeat but Peter follows him across the workshop. 

“He was, he had a problem, but he didn’t see it cause he functioned, but then he injured two people while he was driving under the influence and had to report to Ben and also go to AA as a condition of his parole and –”

“And twelve steps later, he was cured,” Tony finishes, stopping in his tracks to turn on Peter, who almost crashes into him. “Save it, kid, I heard it all before.”

“No, it wasn’t – he hated it. AA. It wasn’t for him. So Ben got him into another program and that was, but that’s not the point I’m getting at –”

“Then get to it already so you can leave me alone.”

He doesn’t miss the way Peter flinches at his raised voice, but at the moment Tony’s beyond caring. The kid stands his ground, though. 

“Tony,” he says, and looks him straight in the eye. “There’s not just one way to be dependent. It’s different for everyone… but it doesn’t mean you aren’t suffering.”

“I’m fine,” he snaps, and finally steps through the door to the garage where Peter is definitely not cleared to follow. The lock engages with a satisfying click.

He’s been meaning to do some tinkering. Cars never fail to calm Tony down. 

Peter’s words keep echoing in his ear, though. 

But what does the kid know? Or Barnes or Rogers or Carol, for that matter? They think Tony’s got a problem, well screw them. He’ll prove them wrong. 

“JARVIS,” Tony says. “Start a timer. I’m not gonna have a drink for the next twenty-four hours.”

“May I enquire as to the cause for this experiment, sir?”

“Just start the damn timer.”

J does, and Tony dives into the guts of his father’s cherished 1972 Ford Falcon that’s been gathering dust for way too many years. He loses himself in the gears and pipes and wires, surfacing only when his skin itches enough to compel him into a shower. 

Once he’s clean and dry and dressed in comfy jeans and his favorite Metallica shirt, he surveys the cloudy sky over Manhattan. The itch is still there, a nagging presence underneath his skin. 

Maybe – right, breakfast. That’s gotta be it. 

He decides to go all out and start the new year with a smoothie. It’s delicious and there’s plenty, but that nagging sensation doesn’t disappear. Or rather, it does, only to return a short while later with a vengeance. 

Fine, he was thinking about hitting the gym anyway. 

It feels good, being physically active. Endorphins and all that, right? It sorta defeats the purpose of his shower, but well, at least he’s relaxed again and calm and —

“Sir.”

Tony stops in his tracks. He’s three steps from his living room liquor cabinet. 

“Sir?”

He was about to pour himself a drink. His after-workout ritual. A reflex, basically, carried out without conscious thought. 

Not today, he decides. It’s not even been nine hours yet. 

So he goes on his phone. Switches to his tablet. Tinkers with the specs of the newest StarkPhone model. Then, when he can’t see any more areas of improvement, pulls up the data on Bucky’s projects. He can’t focus on those either. 

The one thing he can focus on, however, is how close he is to that bottle of Tanqueray on the shelf. 

Tony runs a hand over his face with a sigh, then blinks at his hands again. They’re shaking. It’s subtle, but it’s there. A tremor. 

The worst thing is that Tony knows exactly what would make it go away.

*

Tony has always been quick in making decisions. 

Some call him impulsive, but those people make the mistake of assuming his speed of thinking equals their own. In reality, Tony simply is that fast. 

Just like when he broke up with Pepper, he didn’t need to spend days or weeks mulling it over. This has been a long time coming, he can see that now, and there’s no use in wasting time. 

He finishes the last of his miniatures on 7:42 am on Tuesday. 

He’s in Steve Rogers’ office by 7:53. 

“Mr. Stark?” 

Rogers enters at 7:58 on the dot, every day. Today is no exception. The man seems well rested. Good. He’ll need his energy. 

“Are you...” Rogers trails off. 

Tony sighs. “You can say I look like shit.”

“Sir?” Another voice, from the doorway. 

“Great, Carol, come in. Did you bring —“

“Tony, god, when was the last time you slept?!”

Yes, Carol brought Pepper. Under different circumstances, all three of them gaping at him like fish would be incredibly amusing. 

Tony knows how he looks. He owns a mirror. He shaved last night and showered this morning, but he hasn’t slept since last year. Literally. He couldn’t. He won’t lose his resolve to a few hours of rest. No matter how much the blue polo shirt he’s wearing suits him, it won’t distract from the fact that he’s an absolute wreck. 

“Sit,” he tells them. “Seriously, come on. I’m not getting up.”

They do, albeit reluctantly. Especially Rogers seems to expect a bomb to go off any second. 

In a manner of speaking, he’s right.  
“Acres Creek,” Tony eventually says. “It’s far enough removed from the city so I’m away, yet close enough for emergencies. Or visitors, if they had visiting hours. At least I’m allowed to receive letters. In case anyone remembers how to send one of those,” he adds wryly. 

“Tony. You mean….” 

Pepper’s tone is both incredulous and hopeful. You’d think she didn’t expect him to have it in him. 

“Yeah, Pep. I, uh... I already made arrangements.”

“What?” Steve blurts. “For when? We haven’t even agreed on a strategy, Mr. Stark, how can you –“

“There’s nothing to agree on, Rogers,” Tony interrupts. “I’m ready to go, so I’ll go now. I won’t be lying about it either, so you can shove all your ‘Stark spotted in Monaco’ rumors up your pert little ass.”

“Tony!” Pepper says again, but he’s done discussing this. 

“No,” he says, jumping to his feet. “It’s a two-hour drive in this traffic, maybe more, and I wanna get there before the worst of the symptoms start.”

“Are you packed?” Carol asks before either Pep or Steve can say anything, and he could have kissed her for it. 

“Yeah. Don’t need much. I bribed them into letting me keep a tablet if it’s not hooked to any network.”

“Bribed?!”

“Don’t get your tits in a twist, Rogers, I donated a huge amount of money to be bumped up the waiting list and to make up for the fact that their entire rehab facility’s gonna be set upon by reporters.” 

He’s proud when he doesn’t stumble over the r-word. This is humiliating enough as it is. Humiliating but necessary. 

“Speaking of,” Rogers says, apparently deciding to ignore the alleged bribery for now, “what do you mean, you won’t lie?”

“I mean,” Tony says, “that I’ll use the last moments that I got cellphone access today to snap a selfie of me entering the facility and tell them to look for an official statement, which I had JARVIS help draw up. He’s surprisingly good at mimicking your writing style, Rogers.” 

He winks. “You’re allowed to edit, but nothing major. If I’m gonna do this, I’ll do it right.”

“By dooming our stocks?” Pepper asks, at long last, meaning he can use the line that’s been stuck in his head since four in the morning.

“They’ll recover. Just as I will.” 

He smirks at his pun, but it falls flat. 

“Come on, people! That was at least worth a chuckle.”

“You can’t just leave without so much as a warning,” Pepper says. “What about the new model? The latest trial phase for our prosthetics? Your obligations as member of the –”

“All wrapped up and taken care of,” Tony says, turning to Carol. “I had JARVIS draw up a handy little spreadsheet for you, it’s got everything you need to be me for a month or so.”

Carol doesn’t even blink at the revelation. Gawd, he loves that woman. In a totally platonic, please-be-my-assistant-forever kinda way. 

“And Shuri’s gonna receive a very extensive email package, too, don’t worry. Rogers, my statement should hit your inbox in about a minute or two, which means I gotta go. Toodles,” he says, more bravado in his voice than he’s actually feeling, but Pepper and Steve are still too stunned to react. 

At his nod, Carol falls into step next to him. She follows him to the elevator before speaking up. 

When she does, her words catch him off-guard. 

“I’m happy for you, sir.” 

He tries for a smile. “Also for yourself? But hey, you’ve been doing all the required reading for my meetings anyway, so ain’t like much’s gonna change. And if you’re in trouble, I told JARVIS to treat you like me while I’m gone.”

“Hopefully not _exactly_ like you,” Carol says with an arched eyebrow and Tony genuinely laughs for the first time in… 2019, probably. Ha, too bad those jokes are gonna get old very soon. 

He packed all the items mentioned on the facility’s checklist into the two bags he’s allowed to bring, stowed his tablet on top so he can present it right away, and left them in the elevator so he’s not tempted to sneak another final drink upstairs. 

As is, Carol and he go down to the parking garage where Happy’s already waiting like when he was just a driver. Carol deposits the bags in the trunk, then regards him with a somber look.

“Good luck,” is all she says.

“Hey, I’m not the one who’s gotta make sure my department sticks to their budget this month.”

Carol isn’t fooled, not that Tony expected her to be, and the fond look in her eyes is more motivating that Tony thought it would be. 

He secretly hopes for letters from Peter, too, cause the moment his car reaches Acres Creek, JARVIS will send out the message to the kid that Tony composed some time in the night when he needed a break from the minutia of how SI’s gonna function during his absence. He can’t imagine what a physical letter from the kid would look like, whether he’d type it or handwrite it or… well, no use getting ahead of himself. 

He first has to get through detox. Up to seven days, joy. Tony can tell his body won’t make this easy on him. Then 28 to 30 days of in-patient treatment that’s gonna suck, least of all due to the lack of technology. But he’s not there to work, he’s there to recover.

Not even 35 days. He spent 62 in a cave in Afghanistan. Rehab’s gonna be a walk in the park… right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: I have no first or second-hand experience with alcoholism, but I have a decade of disordered eating and eight years of full-on bulimia to draw on when it comes to the inner processes of an addict. While every person's journey is unique, I have found that some aspects are similar across the spectrum of addictions/addictive behaviours, so I felt confident writing the "Tony goes to rehab" fic I have always wanted to read. 
> 
> *sending hugs*


	10. ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlenhiver: Hey, not to whine or anything, but... when are you going to post chapter 10?  
Me: ... but I already posted. Didn't I?  
A beat.   
Me: Oh fuck. 
> 
> MEA CULPA, dear readers! This chapter has been ready to go for the past, uh, 17 days, and in my mind I definitely posted it but never in fact executed that action. *hides* My sincerest apologies.   
Guess that shows how intense life has been these past weeks that I didn't even manage to update. I've completed up to chapter 12, though, so at least the next updates will follow in quicker succession. *quickly hits post and hides again*
> 
> PS: I have no personal experience with rehab facilities that focus on substance abuse problems, just a few years of therapy and a stay at an in-patient treatment center under my belt, so don't take this representative of "the" recovery experience. It's different for everyone, and this is my take on this version of Tony's journey.

Detox sucks. 

There’s no other word to describe it. 

On top of that, many of his symptoms are perfect flashback triggers: The abdominal pain and heart palpitations alone take him back to the very beginning, when his body was still trying to expel the foreign object in his chest. At least his doctors are giving him the really good (read: expensive) Benzodiazepines to reduce some of the over-activity in his central nervous system while it tries to regain the balance it lost without alcohol. 

When the detox program finally spits him out, Tony wants to sleep for a week straight — but no such luck. 

At least he’s paying enough to warrant a private room. He’s seen _28 Days_, that shit never ends well. He’s not growing attached to a roommate only to lose them to relapse or overdose. 

He also knows to stay clear of all charming fellow patients. He’s not interested in finding a Viggo Mortensen to his Sandra Bullock. 

“Is that a strategy you employ on a regular basis? Deflect with humor?” 

His therapist, unfortunately, does not appreciate his wit. Nor indulge his ramblings. Even worse, she’s immune to his flirting, has the authority to order him to do stuff (like art therapy, _what the hell_) and happens to favor well-tailored dresses. 

She’s also blonde. 

Truly blonde, at least, not the strawberry hue that makes Pepper’s hair so special, but the similarities between the women are enough for Tony to start projecting during his first session. 

Rather than transfer him to another therapist, however, Dr. Albright uses it as a therapeutic tool. 

Which is fine, Tony knows how to handle women like her (smart and ambitious and unwilling to back down from a challenge), so he grits his teeth and does exactly as commanded. He’s like, the anti Sandra Bullock, no matter how much he hates most of what she asks of him. 

Not use technology for three days, for instance. Join morning meditation. Share in group. 

So far, nothing he said would cause too much of a scandal, thanks to thorough editing on his part, but he can tell that Dr. Albright suspects he’s not as truthful or honest as some of the other patients. Twelve days pass without her calling him on it, though, and by now Tony feels like he’s gonna explode if he has to spend one more day painting his feelings or list the skills he used the previous night to stave off his urges. 

“I get it, they’re temporary!” he snaps at long last, fifteen days into in-patient treatment and nowhere near as stable as he knows he has to be to return to his life. “So why the fuck doesn’t it get any easier?”

By now, he’s read all books on alcohol use disorder and other types of substance abuse issues he could get his hands on, cause there was nothing else to do without his StarkPad around. He probably knows more on the subject now than most doctors, has analyzed his history of using alcohol as a coping mechanism so thoroughly he could write a memoir, “and it still doesn’t change a goddamn fucking thing!”

When he’s done shouting, his chest is heaving like he ran several miles rather than pace the length of an office, and Dr. Albright…. 

Smiles. 

_Huh?_

“Thank you for your honesty, Tony,” she says. “Do you realize that this was the first time you spoke your mind since you got here?”

“You know, I was serious about wanting to see you in a bikini –”

“Deflection.”

“Ugh, damn it,” Tony shouts, throwing up his hands and resuming his pacing. “So what? I know the truth, ain’t that enough?”

“Verbalizing your emotions is an essential –”

“Skill, yeah, I know, genius here, remember?”

“Then why don’t you explain to me why you lied in group the other day?”

“Is a lie a lie if the other person knows it’s a lie?” 

Dr. Albright gives him a flat look, which he takes to mean ‘Yup’. 

“Well,” he says, “which one are you referring to? Seriously, it’s getting hard to keep track. Not sure I –” 

“You know which one, Tony.”

Of course _that’s_ what she wants to focus on. “I wasn’t lying. I don’t need a drink to get it up.”

“The question wasn’t about attaining an erection, Tony,” Dr. Albright says. “It was about enjoying it. Can you enjoy sex without alcohol?”

“Sure.”

“Would you cite an example?”

Tony huffs, but obliges. He hopes Dr. Albright will blush if he goes into graphic detail, yet to his disappointment, she’s as immune to the filthiest of dirty talk as Pepper used to be. As hot as sexually liberated women are, sometimes they’re a pain in the ass. 

When he runs out of steam and explicit anecdotes to tell, Tony huffs and throws himself back into his chair. 

“Did you notice that all of your examples lack the fetish aspect you said was a prominent part of your sex life? Did you ever discuss your lack of enjoyment with Pepper?”

“Nothing to discuss. I got off, didn’t I?”

“And you decided pretending everything was fine was preferable to upsetting her and maybe prompting her to leave you?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“But you aren’t together any longer. No need to embellish. Yet you still weren’t truthful in group.”

“To avoid the scandal.”

“What scandal?”

“The hypothetical one! The one that wouldn’t be that hypothetical if I’d actually verbalized any of that,” he says in the most derisive tone he can manage, “cause you think confidentiality holds up against the amount of money the gossip rags would’ve offered them?”

Any reasonable human being would have said, ‘Oh, yes, I understand’, but not so Dr. Albright. Instead, she asks, “Why is avoiding a scandal this important for you?”

It takes what feels like an eternity until he finally gets Dr. Albright to understand that having your person inextricably linked to the success of your company means saying ‘fuck it’ ain’t on the cards. He’s got employees to think about and if Stark Industries tanks, who’s gonna save the world from the array of problems that science holds the answer to?

So there truly is no choice in the matter. 

“You always have a choice,” Dr. Albright says, but she’s wrong, as Tony explains to her, at length.

He should’ve expected her to take a deep-dive into his childhood in response to his tirade, _oh joy_, and by the time their session draws to an end, he’s traced his habit of pretending and heavy self-editing back to the very first interview he gave when he was seven years old. 

That’s over forty-two years of hiding and suppressing his feelings, of adjusting his reactions on the basis of external factors that often went contrary to his own. 

And he’s been drinking regularly for about thirty-five of them. 

Thirty-five years. That’s 74.4 percent of his life. 

Fuck. 

“So you think alcohol helped you maintain whatever act you were putting on?” Dr. Albright says after a full minute of silence. “That of the CEO as well as that of the submissive fiancé?”

“I… I guess.”

“Alcohol is a numbing agent, Tony. It reduced the pain you felt on a day-to-day basis from your circumstances, but now that it is gone from your life, you need to either find other ways of coping, or…” 

Tony waits. Dr. Albright doesn’t continue.

With a sigh, he prompts, “Or?”

“Change your circumstances.” She smiles. “Consider this your homework until our next session.”

Tony doesn’t remember her dismissing him, or him leaving her office, but he must have, cause otherwise he wouldn’t have ended up in his room, on his bed, staring at the ceiling while his mind is exploding with possibilities. 

All of a sudden, life post-recovery does not look as bleak as he thought. 

*

Peter stares at the headline, but no matter how long he does, the words won’t change. 

_STARK’S EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN IN REHAB_ is written in bold black letters above a grainy but unmistakable image showing a Tony who’s obviously been crying. He’s in soft denim and a sweater, hugging himself as though his arms are the only thing keeping him together. 

Suddenly, the cryptic message on Tony’s latest postcard makes sense. 

_‘Fair warning,’_ it said on the back, _‘I’m done hiding.’_

Peter feels his lips curl into a smile despite the worry tugging at his mind and as soon as his last class of that Friday finishes, he’s out of his chair and looking for the closest Letterpress or Papyrus or whatever shop he spots first.

Since Tony isn’t allowed a phone or even visitors at the center he chose, Peter had to think of something else. He eventually decided on sending postcards, since letters are way too formal (not to mention exhausting to write cause they should be longer than three sentences, probably). 

Besides, cards come with motivational quotes.

The first one he sent simply said, ‘Progress, not perfection’. 

The second, ‘If you’re going through hell… keep going.’ 

The third had a quote by Christin Caine that he’d heard May recite in the past: ‘Sometimes when you are in a dark place, you think you have been buried, but actually you have been planted.’

That finally prompts a reply from Tony. It comes in the form of a… well, painting would be pushing it. The postcard-shaped rectangle is simply covered in one color, a vibrant shade of blue that reminds Peter of the light of the arc reactor. 

On the back, Tony wrote, _‘I fucking hate art therapy.’_

It’s not the detailed response Peter has been hoping for, but at least it’s _something_, and Peter resolves to keep up his motivational campaign for as long as his friend would be at Acres Creek. 

And judging by the photo and the headline, Tony is in dire need of support. 

“Hey Quen,” Peter says after the familiar _beep_ of his boyfriend’s voicemail. “Listen, I know I said I got all that I need, but I just saw the news and none of the cards I already have fit so I’m gonna get another one, okay? That’s the last one, I swear. I’ll make it up to you later, alright?”

As loath as Quentin is to let him spend money on Tony Stark, Peter has found his boyfriend is a lot more amenable to Peter’s requests when he shows his gratitude in nonverbal ways. Not that it’s such a hardship, really. 

He finds the perfect card (‘Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken’) with ample time to send it before the start of his shift at Stark Industries, and is in high spirits when he reaches Engineering. 

It lasts until he spots the looks on everyone’s faces. 

“What happened?” he asks, trying to find a clue as to why Shuri looks like someone found and raided her chocolate stash (which Peter officially knows nothing about). 

“Haven’t you seen the headlines?” William asks. “It’s all over the news.”

“Is this about, uh, Mr. Stark?” 

He looks to Shuri, who nods.

His confusion soon gives way to annoyance, cause every single one of Tony’s employees seems to be more worried about the company’s reputation than their boss’s mental health. 

“It’s like they don’t want him to get better!” Peter complains later that evening while chopping salad for their dinner. “Why can’t they be supportive?”

“Babe,” Quentin sighs from where he’s reading on his tablet, but Peter’s not having it. 

“He’s been through a lot and he deserves to get better and you’re all acting like he’s personally out to get your jobs! It doesn’t make sense!”

“What doesn’t make sense,” Quentin snaps, setting down his tablet on the kitchen island, “is that you’re turning into his personal cheerleader. He’s a spoiled rich attention whore who’s gonna milk this for every last drop he can, then he’ll be right back to hitting the bottle. You don’t really think he’ll stay sober, babe.”

“I do,” Peter says, jaw clenching. He would have said more if it weren’t for the sharp flare of pain in his finger. 

“See, that’s what it gets you,” Quentin chides, yet he immediately moves to Peter’s side to examine the cut in his skin. It’s not deep but bleeds profusely, and Quen has to finish cooking after he bandaged Peter up since it still hurts like hell. 

Their argument continues over the weekend and well into next week, spurred on by more details about Tony’s recovery that find their way from the rehab facility onto social media and to the mainstream press. 

That Tuesday, one of Tony’s fellow patients is released and the first thing she does is go live on Instagram to tell everyone about what she saw during the last twenty-two days of Tony’s stay.

It doesn’t sound flattering. 

Peter keeps getting sucked into the comment section of videos and posts and tweets, cause the mental health community is quite vocal about defending Tony’s behavior and Peter learns more than he ever thought possible from multi-paragraph replies to some troll’s insensitive comments. 

He’s also incredibly distracted the majority of the time. 

Which is part of the reason he screws up as badly as he does that Friday night. 

Thing is, Drone Daddy received a rush order from an esteemed client and enlists the help of every pair of hands that could be spared in their department on Wednesday morning. They pull two all-nighters in a row and finish only half an hour behind schedule. 

While William goes to oversee shipping and the rest of their team gets to finally go home and sleep, Peter is stuck with clean-up since William asked if he’s gonna wait for Quen to finish his work and Peter said yes before he realized that meant he had to stay even longer. 

He doesn’t know how it happens exactly. 

He’s tired, his mind is on the latest google alert he received and on how wonderful it will feel to be lying next to his boyfriend again, and somehow he trips, knocks over his current cup of coffee, which spills all over an open box of components he’s yet to put away.

A box of truly expensive components that don’t handle liquids well. 

Peter knows first aid for electronic devices and he does everything he can think of to save the flight controllers from turning into useless scraps, but when he discovers a laptop at the bottom of the box that’s now equally soaked, his panic returns with a vengeance.

That laptop holds sensitive data. Any hope Peter had of keeping quiet about this vanishes in the blink of an eye. 

“What do I do now?” Peter asks as soon as he explained the situation when Quentin comes to collect him.

“Relax, babe,” Quen says. “It’s no big deal. Happens to everyone.”

“O-okay…”

There’s too much adrenaline in his veins for him to truly believe that, but Quentin’s the more experienced employee here. He’ll know best. 

Quen’s miracle fix consists of mixing the probably-fried components into other boxes of functional equipment to hide what Peter did. He also replaces the ruined laptop with another model, then stashes the old one in his office for the time being.

“I’ll dispose of it tomorrow,” Quen says when Peter asks about it, cause if Stark Industries is firm about anything, it’s keeping track of all company laptops and tablets in circulation. 

“But shouldn’t we, you know… tell someone?”

Quentin shrugs. “Why bother anyone with this? What’s done is done. We fixed it.”

Peter’s instinct is to argue, but Quen’s tone is filled with conviction, his expression assuring, and the arm around Peter’s shoulder warm enough to remind him of how desperately he needs to sleep.   
*

The first thing Tony does when Acres Creek releases him into the wild is take a post-rehab selfie in the back of the car in which Happy came to pick him up.

“You’re causing quite the stir, boss,” he says from the driver’s seat, but his tone is fond and oddly proud. 

Tony grins. “Good.”

Happy laughs, and that’s that. 

It’s not until later, when he’s alone in his penthouse that’s been purged of any booze as per his request, after he powered through the extensive notes that Carol left him to review, that the events of the day catch up with him. 

He stares at his tweet from this morning, a picture of him exhausted but smiling outside the gates of the facility, squinting in the harsh February sunlight, then looks at the large number of replies. 

He imagined this moment, during his final days. Dr. Albright asked him to prepare mentally, rehearse it even, to ensure he’d make it through the first twenty-four hours without relapsing. 

One day at a time, they say. Tony used to think it bullshit. Now he’s clinging to it like a lifeline. 

At least Carol proved a worthy deputy during his absence. He’d go so far as to say she’d be able to handle it for the rest of the week, but Tony’s been away from his company’s affairs for thirty-seven days and has had enough of being idle. 

He strides into the office bright and early, after a good night’s sleep and a delicious breakfast that Pepper would call ‘a recipe for early onset diabetes’ cause she buys into the health industry’s rhetoric like the well-trained consumer that she is. Every single employee whose path he crosses sends him the same wide-eyed look of astonishment tinged with worry, as if he’s a ticking time bomb about to go off at any moment. 

Tony makes a point to stop by every single department over the course of the day, including Stark Medical where Bruce pulls him into an _actual hug_. He saves Engineering for last and skips Marketing altogether, given that he spent an hour going over his new ‘strategy’ with Rogers yesterday. A positive hour, on top of that.

“How come?” Peter asks when Tony finally finds him in one of the labs, safety glasses and gloves included, and decides to keep him company until the kid can break for coffee. 

“Well, turns out Rogers is really big on authenticity. Not lying to your audience, shit like that. Even called me brave,” he adds with a smirk. 

“You are,” Peter says. “What you’re doing, it’s…”

The sincerity in his voice warms Tony’s chest. “Thanks.”

There’s a lull in their conversation while Peter finishes up whatever tests he’s got to perform, then Tony lends a hand with the cleanup to hurry Peter’s break along. All Peter’s got left to do is take off the googles and gloves, then they’re – 

“What the hell?!” 

Peter heaves a sigh, like the fact that there’s a faint shiner underneath his left eye ain’t noteworthy. 

“What happened?”

“An accident.”

“You fell into someone’s fist, kid?”

Cause Tony’s been around long enough to recognize when skin was broken by knuckles rather than something else, and that definitely was one mean right hook. 

“I was clumsy,” Peter says, sounding so genuine he wouldn’t even trigger Tony’s bullshit-meter if it weren’t for the suspicious origin of the bruise. 

“Yeah? Well, what happened?”

Tony’s mind is already exploding with different scenarios, and each makes him feel progressively worse cause he’s been so wrapped up in his own drama that he completely missed whatever led to Peter looking like an ad for Arnica cream.

When he finally gets Peter to admit something, though, it’s the least thing he expected. 

“Nothing bad, okay? I… it’s, uh… It’s a sex thing.”

It’s also bullshit. 

“Beck do this to you?”

“It was an accident,” Peter says again, firmer this time. “Like I said, it’s a sex thing and I’m not, uh… comfortable discussing that in the work place.”

Tony has no choice but to grind his teeth and keep silent on the matter. And Peter knows that perfectly well, or he’d never have chosen this particular lie. Kid can’t talk about sex without turning into a flustered mess. No chance in hell he’d use it as an explanation if he weren’t aiming to nip any further interrogation in the bud. Tony is his boss, after all.

So he drops it. 

Doesn’t mean he’s gonna roll over and let it slide indefinitely. 

He’s subtle about it, between sips of coffee and assurances that nope, he doesn’t wanna talk about rehab in the executive lounge of his company, thanks very much. 

“I’d say I’m too sober for that shit, but that’s probably too soon?”

Peter snorts regardless, cause Peter’s sense of humor is exemplary. 

“I wanna know about you, kid,” he says. “As fun as your cards were, I’ve seen ads that were more informative.”

It works. Peter leaps at the chance to provide a distraction and while Tony truly cares about what’s been going on with him, he also needs to get a better idea of where the kid’s at with Beck. 

Not that there’ve been any tremendous changes in their relationship within the past five weeks – yet Tony’s perspective has shifted. He might have been blind to the unhealthy elements of their dynamic while maintaining his perpetual buzz, but in the harsh light of day 38, Peter’s tales of his relationship take on a very different undertone. 

“And I was gonna help May like the last couple of years, but Quen has to present to the Board on Friday so that weekend would be the only time we could really spend together, so I guess I —“

“Beck tell you to cancel?”

“What? No, he’d never... Told me to go, even. To help. There’ll be other weekends we can spend together. It’s no big deal.”

Tony wants to shake him, cause how can Peter not see what Beck is doing? That manipulative, slimy –

“But I won’t. I wanna be there for him,” Peter says, sincere to the bone, and it takes every ounce of Tony’s self-control to keep from shouting. 

Shit. How did he miss when things got so bad? 

Guilt coils in Tony’s gut like lead. Another thing that booze took from him – no, that his own choices took from him: a chance to intervene as soon as he could. 

“Uh, Tony?”

He snaps back to the moment, where Peter is looking at him across the cafeteria table, brow furrowed in concern. 

“Sorry. You said he’ll present to the Board?”

Peter nods. “Friday after Valentine’s. May’s event is Saturday. I can do as much as I can Friday after work, I’m sure May’s gonna understand. I think she finally approves of Quen, you know?”

Old Tony would have run his mouth and probably screwed up any chance he ever had at maintaining his friendship with Peter, but post-rehab Tony knows better. There were several people at Acres Creek who’d come out of unhealthy relationships, and each tale of friends staging an intervention backfired spectacularly. 

Besides, Tony doesn’t have all the information yet. Maybe he’s misinterpreting things. Maybe Peter and Beck truly have a fully consensual relationship that involves the occasional beating that leaves marks. Maybe Peter’s the kind of person who flourishes under such an unequal power dynamic. 

Yeah, right. 

The kid who’s done his best work ever since Bucky acknowledged their professional relationship has slipped into friendship (“I get to call him Bucky when we’re alone or not at work! Bucky!” Peter told Tony via voice message three-point-five minutes after it happened) and who flourishes under Shuri’s sisterly tutelage. 

Still, the last thing Tony wants is to make this worse – or worse than he already has by being so inattentive. Time for recon. 

While Peter returns to the final hours of his shift in high spirits, Tony takes a deep dive into Quentin Beck’s employee records. 

On paper, the guy’s a stellar engineer, a great team player and incredibly smart. So smart, in fact, that he’s working on expanding the use of the holographic illusion system he developed for med students and doctors-in-training.

In retrospect, Tony shouldn’t have opened the project files. 

He did, though, and damn, he forgot how good it feels to sink his teeth into a new project, to tinker and play and experiment to see where the limits are of the technology at hand. 

Tony’s biggest fear when entering rehab was that he’d be less of a genius without alcohol, but the opposite turns out to be the case. Sure, the urges are distracting as fuck, but his body isn’t dependent anymore, all psychological effects are temporary, and Tony’s always had a talent for immersing himself in one task for days on end. 

By the time the Board meeting arrives, Tony is positively giddy with excitement. 

Beck decidedly less so. 

“Mr. Stark,” he says as they shake hands. “What an honor. I thought Pepper – Ms. Potts,” he corrects, with a demure smile that everyone in the room eats up without hesitation (except Tony, of course). “I thought she was overseeing this on her own. Apologies, if I’d known you were coming, sir, I –”

Tony cuts him off with a raised hand. Damn, he missed this. Being the boss rules.

“No need, Mr. Beck. I don’t wanna cause a hassle. Just pretend I’m not in the room, alright?”

“I shall try,” Beck says with an undertone that rubs Tony the wrong way. 

He’s got a plan, though, and he’s sticking to it. 

Beck’s not the kind of guy you humiliate in front of the CEO of the company along with the Board of Directors. Before ever announcing his intention to sit in, Tony decided that he’d simply watch.

He can tell his unusual demeanor unsettles some of the other members, Pepper included, but Tony doesn’t care. The days that he wouldn’t let any chance to put fellow scientists in their place pass him by, no matter the circumstances, are behind him. 

If anything, Tony’s ineffectual silence angers Beck more than any of his pointed comments or questions ever could. 

When Beck finally suggests exploring the possible uses of his tech within the defense industry, every single person in the room waits for Tony’s inevitable protest. 

All he does, though, is hum and make a note on his StarkPad. 

“What the hell was that?” Pepper asks the moment they’re alone in her office after the meeting. “What were you doing there if you weren’t gonna say anything!”

“Seeing what Beck is up to. I could’ve just hacked into his files on the SI servers, but I figured this way at least I won’t be investigated for workplace misconduct. Even though they are my files. But hey, who am I to argue with workplace legislation?”

Pepper stares at him. “What are you up to?”

Tony gives her his best ominous grin.


	11. eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *emerges from work overload and waves awkwardly*  
Hi folks! May the content of this chapter make up for the longer wait... and apologies for taking ages to respond to comments. Life remains over-packed atm and I can't wait for it all to lessen again... come mid-March.

If Peter thought the stress of the past weeks and the prospect of a free Saturday mean his boyfriend will skip their morning workout, he’s mistaken. 

“Besides,” Quen says on their way to the treadmills, “it’ll help your muscle ache.”

Peter doubts it, but he already missed Quen’s return from the presentation cause pre-event setup took a lot longer than expected. And Quen sounds like he would have really needed a distraction, so he won’t curtail their time any more than necessary.

Quen isn’t in a chatty mood, though, and leaves Peter halfway through his set of sit-ups to take another crack at the salmon ladder. 

Peter executes his final set of cycling crunches, then switches to reverse crunches, which earns him a groan from the tall guy on the bench next to him. 

“Damn, you make it look so easy, man.”

Peter’s too out of breath to do anything beyond chuckle. 

The guy keeps talking, though, saying how he only just moved here three weeks ago and isn’t this building great?

“Yeah,” Peter manages, then the guy’s off again. 

He’s about Quentin’s age and obviously flush with new cash, judging by the way he’s chosen his outfit. All brand new, brand names on display, and designed to look great against his dark skin rather than be functional. At least his movements aren’t merely for show.

“How long’ve you and the Arrow wanna-be been living here?”

… huh?

Peter blinks at the guy, who pauses in his routine to look over to where Quen just lost his grip on the fourth rung and is cussing while the group of onlookers groan in sympathy. 

“You and your partner. Seventh floor, right?”

“Um...”

“I’m not a weird stalker or anything, seriously, man. I live on eighth and sometimes see you guys coming or going. You caught my eye, if I’m being honest. You know, I got this state-of-the-art coffee machine and have yet to christen it, would you, maybe …?”

Part of Peter wants the ground to swallow him whole, another is tempted to laugh at the guy’s brazen attitude. He ends up doing neither cause Quen appears at their side before Mr. McPushy can finish his question.

“Hey babe,” he says, leaning down to kiss Peter fully on the lips. “Who’s your new friend?”

“Uh, this is….” Peter trails off, only now realizing that he totally tuned out the guy’s name, if he mentioned it. 

“Castus,” the guy supplies, grinning at them as he sits up. “I’m your new neighbor.”

“He’s on eighth,” Peter says, for lack of anything better to say. 

Quentin regards Castus a beat longer than necessary before introducing himself and welcoming the guy to the building.

His tone is pleasant enough, yet Peter can tell Quen doesn’t mean a single syllable.

Seems like Castus picks up on that, too, since he gathers his towel and water bottle. “Great to meet ya. Anyway, I gotta get going. See ya around, yeah?”

“Sure,” Peter replies cause Quen seems okay with just glaring after Castus’ retreating back. 

To pre-empt that same glare from being directed at him, Peter addresses Quentin the moment their new neighbor is out of earshot. 

“Thanks. He was gonna ask me out.”

Quentin cocks an eyebrow. “So why didn’t you say anything, babe?”

“I was gonna, but he kept talking and I couldn’t get a word in –”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I saw your body language when I came over here,” Quen says, stepping closer to lower his voice. “I know you, babe, and you were interested.”

“No, I –”

“Don’t lie to me, babe. Not about this.”

“I… Quen.” Peter takes a deep breath. “He’s nowhere near the kind of guy you are. There’s no reason to worry, okay? Don’t you trust me?”

“Oh babe,” Quentin sighs, lifting a hand to caress his cheek. “I want to. I really do. But you’re young and I’m your first boyfriend. It’s natural that you’ll consider what else is out there.”

“But I don’t,” Peter tries again, yet the conviction in Quentin’s gaze is unwavering. 

“I’ll cool down upstairs,” he says after a tense moment of silence, then turns on his heels without so much as a goodbye glance. 

Mood thoroughly ruined, Peter decides to skip the rest of his routine and goes straight to aggressively stretching his muscles. It’s not that he isn’t touched Quentin loves him enough to grow jealous, but can’t he see that what Peter feels for him goes so deep, no random stranger or new acquaintance could ever dream to compete? How can he, after all these years, still doubt Peter’s devotion? 

If words won’t get him anywhere, Peter decides, he’s gonna go for actions. 

When he gets upstairs to their apartment, the shower is already running. Peter sheds his clothes in the hallway and throws them into the hamper before approaching the bathroom door, sweat cooling on his exposed skin. 

Quen’s eyes are closed when Peter enters. He’s massaging shampoo into his scalp and only notices his presence when Peter opens the glass door of the stall. 

For a moment, Peter fears Quen will tell him to go. He doesn’t tell him to stay either, but Peter’s taking a stand and he won’t stop until explicitly told to do so. 

Thing is, Quen loves shower sex, about as much as Peter dislikes it. It’s not only wasting water but also impractical with a vengeance, and Peter never enjoyed himself when they tried it at the beginning of their relationship. So they never did it again. 

Until now. 

Quen’s eyes are like a physical weight on his skin as he approaches. He doesn’t move, merely waits to see what Peter is planning, for which he’s grateful. He’s nervous enough as it is. 

When he’s toe-to-toe with Quen, the spray of the shower reaches his side, but he doesn’t bask in the warmth for long. He kisses a path down Quentin’s chest and abs, folds his legs to kneel and mouths at Quen’s soft cock. 

He looks up to meet Quen’s eyes before he starts sucking, water be damned, cause he needs Quen to understand what he’s saying is true. He pours everything into the blowjob, every ounce of love and care, until he sees Quentin’s hands clench at his sides – a sign that he’s worked up enough to relinquish control.

Slowly, Peter guides Quentin’s hands to the side of his head. Their eyes meet one more time. Then Peter relaxes his jaw and prepares to take everything Quen wants to give him. 

They don’t do this often, mostly cause it’s impossible for Quen to be gentle when fucking his face the way he truly wants to, and he doesn’t want Peter to hurt for hours afterwards. Sometimes, though, Peter will signal he’s up for it – it’s one of the few things he can truly give Quen that are special. That show him how much he loves him when words aren’t enough. 

And if his jaw is sore for the rest of the weekend, if his knees hurt from the tiles, or if his voice is a bit rough, that’s a small price to pay for soothing the waves.

*

The beginning of the end dawns bright and crisp, much like most February mornings have so far. 

Peter has classes till late, so he’s not at SI when Ms. Potts tells Quentin the bad news. He doesn’t even get a text, not from Quen, nor from Tony, meaning he’s blissfully ignorant to what went down when he returns at half past six and consults the contents of their fridge for dinner. 

His first clue that something’s wrong is the slamming of the door. 

Startled, Peter drops the spatula but manages to catch it before it clanks onto their oven. He lowers the heat on the stir-fry, then hurries into the living room where Quentin is standing still, back rigid, and chest heaving with every inhale. 

Peter is at his side immediately. “What’s wrong?”

He’s never seen his partner like this. Quentin’s positively oozing red hot fury, a fire in his eyes that keeps Peter from reaching out to soothe him. 

“Quen?”

“Don’t give me that, babe,” Quen all but snaps. “You know perfectly well what’s wrong.”

“Uh... no?”

“Really,” Quen sneers. “Like Stark could’ve kept this from you.”

“Kept what from me? Quen, I swear, I—”

“Stark hates the direction I’m taking my research,” Quentin interrupts. “It’s too aggressive. Too easy to weaponize. Bold, that’s what it is. But Stark doesn’t have the balls for it; guess he lost them somewhere in Afghanistan.” 

Peter wants to protest cause Tony’s one of the bravest people he knows, but now that Quentin has started talking, he seems unable to stop. It’s like the floodgates have opened, releasing a deluge of insults and information. 

From his rant, Peter gathers some hard facts: After sitting in on Quentin’s meeting with the Board on future developments based on his breakthroughs, Tony had some of his own, which led him to a totally different area of application for Quen’s inventions.

While helping trauma survivors process and overcome their traumatic memories is a much better use of company capital than adopting it to training programs for the Department of Defense, at least in Peter’s opinion, he understands where Quentin’s anger is coming from. 

He doesn’t know what to do about it, though. 

Any attempt to talk him down fails, all words of reason fall on deaf ears. He figures it might be best to let Quentin run out of steam, yet when he makes for the kitchen, he’s yanked back by a hand on his arm. 

“Where’re you going?”

“To check on dinner –“

“That’s more important than what I’m going through?” Quen is still holding Peter’s left arm in a grip that’s starting to hurt. “Don’t you care? Or are you with Stark on this?”

“Of course I care!” Peter protests and tries to get Quentin to let go, but his struggles only make Quentin’s fingers tighten.

“Then act like it, damn it! This is my life’s work and your _friend_ ruined it.”__

_ _“But I thought you could stay on and –”_ _

_ _“And witness how Bleeding Heart Banner and the spoiled man-child bastardize my achievements? Slap their names on it while I’m relegated to the sidelines? No fucking way, Peter.”_ _

_ _With that, Quen finally releases him, yet only to slam him against the doorframe and pin him there. The hard wood pushes into Peter’s back, but it’s Quentin’s fingers digging into his upper arms that hurt the most._ _

_ _“I’ll show them who’s the genius,” Quen growls, face so close to Peter’s that he’s out of focus. “They will regret ever standing in my way.”_ _

_ _He finally pauses long enough for Peter to grind out a rough, “Quen,” his voice pained, and it’s like flicking a switch. One moment Quentin’s face is twisted in rage, the next it loses all color. _ _

_ _“Babe,” he says, taking a shocked step back. _ _

_ _The pressure against Peter’s front disappears with Quentin’s hands and his own come up to rub the sore spots. _ _

_ _Quen notices. He’s back in Peter’s space immediately. _ _

_ _“Fuck, babe, I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.”_ _

_ _Peter barely manages to keep from shoving Quentin away; if only by escaping into the kitchen where their dinner fortunately hasn’t caught fire yet, cause damn, if he ruined another one of Quentin’s pans by being inattentive – _ _

_ _“Babe, please, don’t do this to me,” Quen says, right behind him but keeping his distance this time. “Don’t shut me out now.”_ _

_ _Peter takes a few deep breaths, then switches off the heat and turns around again. The anguished expression on Quentin’s face goes a long way to curb Peter’s own anger, but it’s still simmering underneath his skin when Quen reaches for him. _ _

_ _His touch is soft and hesitant, as though he’s afraid Peter might bolt again, but that’s nigh impossible with Quentin crowding him against the kitchen counter. _ _

_ _“I’m so fucking sorry,“ he whispers. “Shit, babe, let me make it up to you.”_ _

_ _The hand on Peter’s jaw dips lower, down his chest and to his belt buckle. Sex is the last thing on Peter’s mind right about now and he’d have said as much if Quen hadn’t caught his lips in a kiss._ _

_ _By the time Quentin has wrapped his fingers around Peter’s soft cock, he figures it doesn’t matter. Quentin clearly needs the distraction, and it’s been ages since he’s been given a hand job. _ _

_ _So Peter closes his eyes, tries to lose himself in the sensation, and hums at the appropriate moments between Quen’s murmurs._ _

_ _It seems to work. Quentin’s smiling after Peter has spilled his release all over his hand. _ _

_ _He even sets the table for dinner afterwards. _ _

_ _They talk – or rather, Quentin does. Compliments the food, takes Peter’s hand across the table. “What would I do without you?” he says. _ _

_ _Peter can’t think of anything to say. His head feels empty, and he’s not sure why. Maybe he’s still coming down from his orgasm. _ _

_ _It’s when they’re clearing the dishes that Peter finds his voice again. “So, um… what now? About your project? Do you get to oversee the transition, or…?”_ _

_ _Quentin’s expression darkens as he shrugs. “I’ll find out on Monday. That’s when I have to make my decision.”_ _

_ _“Well, what would you like? I’m sure Tony’d listen if you –”_ _

_ _“What I’d like,” Quentin snaps, “is for him to keep his dirty paws off my achievements and for my partner to stop defending the guy who’s ruining my career.”_ _

_ _“But – you’ll be credited, and everyone’s gonna know who did the preliminary work. If you want, I could talk to Tony and –”_ _

_ _“Don’t.”_ _

_ _Quentin’s tone shuts Peter up immediately. “You’re not helping, babe.”_ _

_ _“Then tell me how I can! I wanna be there for you,” Peter says, and he grabs Quentin by the wrist to pull him into the living room. _ _

_ _He was thinking along the lines of cuddling on the sofa and watching a movie or one of the documentary series they’re both so fond of, yet Quentin obviously has different ideas. He pounces on Peter with hard kisses and gruff hands and it takes until Quen turns him around for Peter to get where this is going._ _

_ _Before he has a chance to say anything, he’s bent over the back of the sofa, Quentin draped across his back and grinding his groin against Peter’s ass. _ _

_ _The position is uncomfortable, bordering on painful, but when Peter wants to point that out, Quentin shushes him._ _

_ _“That’s what I need right now, babe, damn you’re perfect, I love you so much,” Quen murmurs as he yanks down Peter’s jeans and underwear. “Gonna give it to you good, babe, so good, spread your legs – there you go.”_ _

_ _Part of Peter wants to ask Quen to be more careful, but another, bigger part of him can’t help but think he deserves it if it hurts a bit. After all, if he’d been more empathetic, Quen wouldn’t be so angry. _ _

_ _It doesn’t take long anyway. Quen’s pounding into him like a man on a mission, keeping up a steady stream of praise of Peter’s body, the muscles in his back, how tight he is, going as far as to slap his cheeks a few times. When Quentin finally comes, balls-deep inside him and pushing him further into the sofa, Peter bites down a sigh. _ _

_ _He takes Peter to the shower to clean up afterwards, even checks him for bruising, and as soon they’re in bed, Quen plastered along Peter’s back with an arm over his waist. Within minutes, Quen’s breathing evens out as he drifts into sleep. _ _

_ _Peter stares into the darkness of their bedroom for a long time while sleep evades him. There’s a weird pressure on his chest and an uneasy feeling in his stomach that won’t go away, no matter how much he tells himself tomorrow will be better. Everyone’s allowed to have bad days, even Quentin, and sometimes people do things that aren’t ideal. Still doesn’t mean Quen loves him any less, right?_ _

_ _All morning, Quentin’s sour mood affects their interactions to the point that Peter actually looks forward to getting out of the apartment to meet the gang for dinner, only to regret it two minutes after their arrival. _ _

_ _“That bastard,” Victoria says as she hands Quentin his whiskey. “What a pussy.” _ _

_ _The insults grow ever more creative from there. _ _

_ _By the end of the evening, Peter’s stuck with a drunk partner who spends their cab ride home whispering in Peter’s ear about how he’s going to fuck him into the mattress as soon as they’re alone._ _

_ _“I think I’m still sore,” Peter tries, but Quen chuckles. _ _

_ _“You can take more than that, babe, I know you can. Please?”_ _

_ _The uneasy feeling is back with a vengeance, but he pushes it aside. Quentin needs him right now. _ _

_ _It resurfaces during their post-coital cuddling. The way Peter’s positioned allows him a clear view of the bed’s reflection in the mirror, from their tangled feet to Quentin’s face smushed against his shoulder. He’s holding him particularly close tonight, as though Peter’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this world._ _

_ _That knowledge should be enough to stave off the renewed pressure on his chest… but it isn’t. _ _

_ _Instead it persists throughout Sunday and the following week. Peter thinks this is what ‘going through the motions’ must feel like. He’s present, he does his job, attends class, cooks dinner, has sex with Quentin… rinse, repeat. _ _

_ _On Monday, Quen tells the Board that he will leave the project, effective immediately. _ _

_ _On Thursday, Quentin grudgingly accepts a position as leader of a team where he’s gonna apply his binaural augmentation techniques to anything that would benefit from it, including Bucky’s prosthetics program. It’s under the purview of both Engineering and Stark Medical, meaning ‘Bleeding Heart Banner’ will be Quen’s immediate boss for the foreseeable future. _ _

_ _On Friday, after his first day on the new gig, Quentin texts Peter that he’s meeting the gang and not to wait with dinner. _ _

_ _Peter can’t remember the last time he had dinner alone. He’s about to grab a slice of pizza on his way home – cause it’s been a challenging week and no matter how healthy their home-made whole grain pizzas are, it’s not the same as the real thing – but stops himself. _ _

_ _Is the convenience truly worth interrupting Quen’s evening? Or is not calling or texting to tell him in advance worth the risk of Quen checking his notifications while still at the bar, thus ruining his evening through his boyfriend’s poor food and spending choices?_ _

_ _Peter keeps walking. _ _

_ _He makes it halfway through his healthy but boring avocado bean quinoa salad before a thought occurs to him. _ _

_ _ _Why?_ _ _

_ _ _ _Don’t get him wrong, he’s glad Quen has taken it upon himself to tackle Peter’s finances, grateful even that he has someone at his side who’s so much more knowledgeable… but why would Peter need to run a four-dollar-purchase past his boyfriend? _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Beyond that, why does Quen need to receive push notifications on his phone from a credit card that belongs to Peter?_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He’d always assumed that’s the normal way couples handle these things, yet tonight, he’s not so sure anymore. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _The question festers in his mind. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _The internet doesn’t really help either. Quentin isn’t keeping him in the dark; they have very open monthly check-ins about their budget, their spending and their savings goals. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _And yet… _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Peter makes it another hour before resolving to ask the one person he knows has been in a comparable situation. Not that Quen and he are even close to marriage at this point, but maybe someday – _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Anyway. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He texts Tony. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _Hey, I have a question and I’d totally understand if you don’t wanna reply, okay? How did you and Ms. Potts handle money in your relationship?___ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _His phone rings forty seconds later. _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _“I know, calling’s not really our thing,” Tony’s voice says, “but I sorta got my hands full over here and even I haven’t figured out how to grow a third arm for typing when the need arises.”_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _“Oh, sorry, this can wait, you’re obviously busy –”_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _“Never too busy for you, kid,” Tony says, a smile in his voice. “So what do you wanna know?”_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _“Uh… Just, like… did you have joint accounts?”_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _Tony snorts. “Hell no. Way too risky. Besides, Pep earned a decent salary; didn’t want anyone to think she’s my kept lady. What brings this on? Beck ask you to pool resources?”_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _“Um…”_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _“Cause if he did, insist on each of you guys still having an individual account, in addition to the joint one. Way less messy.”_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _“We, well…” Peter swallows. He thinks he can hear DUM-Y chirping in the background. “We sorta already did?”_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _“What? When?”_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _Peter explains what led to their decision, and once he’s started, he can’t seem to stop. He explains about the pizza incident today that got him wondering, about their finance meetings, how he’s so grateful that Quen took care of his 401k and Roth IRA but that he’s doubting whether or not their dynamic is… well, healthy. _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _“It’s not,” Tony says immediately. “Far from it. Fuck, kid, you’re not supposed to have to ask for permission to spend your own freakin’ money.”_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _“I don’t! Just, you know, anything frivolous.”_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _“A slice of pizza is frivolous now?”_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _“No, not _per se_,” Peter says, struggling to find the right words. “But it’s unnecessary cause we got so much at home for me to cook, so splurging cause I’m lazy is…”___ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Do you even know how much you earn?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Of course! I saw it in my co-op agreement.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Tony remains silent on the other end of the line._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“What?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Hang on, I’m – ah, here. Employee records, let’s see… Alright, your file says you got two bonus payments, one at the end of each year. Beck tell you about those?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _He must have forgotten to mention them,_ is Peter’s first thought, but this slip really doesn’t fit Quentin’s organized nature. __ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“I’ll take that as a no,” Tony says, his tone brisk. “I’d suggest you check your account statements; see where that money went. If Beck’s so big on communication, I guess he won’t mind explaining whatever you’ll find.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“O-okay.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“You sure?” Tony asks when Peter doesn’t continue. “Cause if you aren’t, I got a bunch of lawyers who can help.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _If Peter weren’t terrified before, he certainly is now. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“No, no, I,” he says, heart beating in his throat. “We’ll figure it out. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. Or a surprise. He wouldn’t…”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _He hears Tony heave a sigh on the other end of the line. “If you think so. But kid, I’m serious. You need anything, anything at all, night or day, gimme a call, okay? Even if you just wanna talk. _Especially_ if you wanna talk.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _The wave of gratitude Peter feels at how genuine Tony sounds does little to keep his panic at bay for longer than a couple of minutes after he hangs up. There simply has to be an explanation, right, cause Quen’s earning decent money and doesn’t need to, well, to… Peter can’t even spell it out in his own mind. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _He takes Tony’s advice. Logs into his online checking account for the first time in ages, searches for his paychecks. He finds them, every single one… as well as an additional two thousand dollars for each of his co-op years. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _It takes much longer than Peter expects to trace where the money went. Quentin has set up a complex, automated system of savings and investments that goes way over Peter’s head, and he doesn’t have any idea what most of the terms signify. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Fortunately, he doesn’t need to. All it takes is recognizing patterns. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Soon, he identifies several payments that don’t fit the regular rhythm, and a bit of research shows him that they’re made towards a life insurance. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Okay. That’s… _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Peter can’t tell anymore. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _All he knows is that he needs to talk to Quentin about this, the moment he gets home. So he prints out copies of the respective transactions and places them on the coffee table, where a tired but sober Quen immediately spots them when he joins him on the sofa an hour later. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“What d’you got there, babe?” he says, more to himself than to Peter, and quickly scans the pages._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _In his mind, Peter envisioned about a dozen different scenarios as to how this would go. None of them involved Quentin getting teary-eyed. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _It throws Peter for a loop. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“I was gonna tell you, babe,” Quen says. “I was just waiting for the right time. Clearly I wasn’t fast enough, and I apologize, but this is for your own good.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Really?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Yes,” Quen says, shifting closer and taking Peter’s hand in his. “My research is dangerous, babe. What if something were to happen to me? I want to know you’ll be taken care of, in the worst case. That you’ll be able to have a future. That’s why I started the life insurance. I couldn’t bear it if you had to struggle should anything ever happen to me.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“You mean, I’m the, what… beneficiary?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Quentin gives him one of his fond ‘oh, babe’ looks that signals what a stupid question he thinks that is. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Of course you are. Who else would I pick? My life is nothing without you.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _How that equates to taking Peter’s money without his consent and putting it into an insurance policy they’re statistically highly unlikely to ever cash in, Peter doesn’t know. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _But according to Quen, it makes perfect sense, cause it gives them peace of mind. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“And besides,” Quen adds, “you appointed me your representative in the eyes of your bank, Peter. I agree that I should have run this by you, and I promise that I will in the future, but don’t go accusing me of things I didn’t do.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“I… right. Sorry.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“It’s fine, babe,” Quen says, and pulls him into a firm hug. “Don’t worry about these things, okay? I got them handled.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _And that should have been the end of it. Peter truly wants to let it go, but it seems like every single day over the next few weeks, something happens that brings the issue back to the forefront of his mind. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _A purchase he considers but discards. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Cancelling on May cause Quen is held up at work and Peter has to do all the meal prep for the following week by himself. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Texting Quen out of reflex when a professor lets them go early and Peter heads to a coffee shop to study for finals. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Quen’s refusal to let him sleep in on the first day of summer break. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“I’m still tired,” Peter says. “I won’t be any good.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“The only bad workout is one that didn’t happen. Come on, babe.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Quentin’s tone is jovial, yet the order is clear. It only occurs to Peter twenty minutes later, when he’s forcing himself to keep pace on the treadmill, that he followed without second thought. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _So on Sunday, he digs his proverbial heels._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Babe? You coming?” Quentin calls from the living room, then from their bedroom door, judging by his footsteps, where he breaks off abruptly cause Peter’s still got his head on the pillow. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Peter, get up. We’re already behind schedule.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“It’s Sunday.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“So?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“I’m tired.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“You slept seven and a half hours. That’s perfectly sufficient.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“I don’t wanna workout today,” Peter huffs, sitting up at last. “Why can’t you just let me skip this once?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Cause I know you, babe. If I allow this, you’ll skip again and again and then where would that leave us?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _With more enjoyable mornings,_ Peter thinks, somewhat viciously. __ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _What he says is, “I’m not coming.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Yes, you are.” _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Quen grabs Peter’s arm and pulls, yet Peter quickly tears himself out of his grip before he can be yanked to his feet. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Peter! What the fuck has gotten into you? Why’re you being so difficult?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“I wanna skip an hour at the gym for the first time in years and that’s being difficult?!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Yes, you’re acting like a spoiled child and I won’t tolerate it. I love you too much to allow you to sabotage yourself like this.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Peter tries to argue that his refusal is self-care, but Quen won’t hear of it. The second day in a row, Peter finds himself exactly where he doesn’t want to be. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Something’s gotta give._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Ask him for a break,” Tony suggests like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve been living in each other’s pockets since, when? Senior year of high school? It’s time to take a step back. Reassess.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“I... I can’t.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Why?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _He doesn’t have anywhere else to go, for one. After Peter left for college, May traded in their two-bedroom apartment for a cheaper studio without a guest room. He’s too out of touch with Ned to ask Mr. Leeds for theirs, he realizes with a wince. Hotels or Airbnb would be too much of a hassle, not to mention expensive._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Stay with me, then,” Tony says. “I got like, five guest floors. Hey, you can join Barnes for antisocial movie nights. Unless he’s with Rogers, then I’d suggest you steer clear of his rooms. Learn from my mistakes, young padawan.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _It’s rare that Peter has such a strong, visceral reaction to anything, let alone one of Tony’s generous offers, but every fiber of his body is shouting at him to decline. Given how much trouble it caused when Tony repurposed Quen’s research, Peter can’t imagine what Tony giving him a place to stay would do._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Then Beck’s gotta suck it up like a big boy,” Tony says, but Peter shakes his head. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Tony’s idea regarding a break has some merit, though. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Peter can’t remember how life was like without Quentin. Maybe he simply has to explore what if feels like to be on his own again? It’s simple science: Either he’ll see what he’s missing, or his feelings for Quen will return to their original intensity. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _May has a couch. If push comes to shove, he’ll be able to crash there._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _The idea keeps tugging at the corners of his mind for the next couple of weeks._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _It’s an experiment, nothing more. He finds himself devouring every article on how to put a relationship on hold that he can find online, asks himself all the questions the authors urge readers to ask, thinks through every practicality he can imagine. Researches cheap Airbnb places in Manhattan on his work computer, then immediately clears his browser history. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Once he’s certain he considered everything and that a break is what he needs, he packs the SI duffel bag he borrowed from the staff rooms while Quen is undergoing his weekend skin care regiment in the bathroom. Peter should be marinating chicken for tomorrow’s dinner, yet instead he waits on the sofa for Quen to emerge. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _When he finally does, Peter’s pulse is racing._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“You done already, babe?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Quen…”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Something about his tone must have been off, for Quentin immediately appears at his shoulder. His gaze drops to the duffle bag at Peter’s feet. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Babe… What is this?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _There’s confusion in his voice. Peter swallows. He’s made up his mind. He’s doing this._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Quen,” he says. “I… I wanna take a break.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“A break?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Peter nods, rises to his feet and takes the duffel bag with him. “I’ll stay in an Airbnb for a bit. Just two weeks, then I’m back. I just need to… I need some space. To think.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“You’re breaking up with me?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“No, no, I –”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“That’s what a ‘break’ is code for, right? What happened, babe? Don’t you love me anymore?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“I do, but –”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Then what’s the problem?” Quentin says, wide-eyed, taking hold of Peter’s shoulders. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _His grip is light, though, so Peter can pull out of it without trouble. “I don’t know, okay? But the money thing, I…”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“So this is about money?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“No –”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Cause we can talk about this, babe. I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that our systems are set in stone. Just talk to me, we’ll find a solution. Please, babe. Don’t leave me.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“I’m not, I just… I want some time apart.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Babe, please,” Quentin says again, stepping closer. “I don’t think I could handle it. I can’t even imagine waking up without you by my side, let alone an entire day without knowing I’ll come home to you at the end of it.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Peter hesitates and Quen rests a gentle hand against his cheek. The look in his eyes is unlike anything Peter has ever seen before – raw and vulnerable, as if the mere thought of Peter’s departure is slicing him open._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“I… Quen, I need to do this.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“No, babe. Please. We’ll find another way. Don’t do this to me. Don’t force me into this situation.” _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“What situation?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Quen takes a deep breath and rests his forehead against Peter’s for a moment. When he pulls back, he does so completely, and Peter is struck by the sudden lack of body heat. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Yet the anguished look in Quentin’s eyes shocks him to the core. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“Quen?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“I… I told you about my sister, right?” he says, not looking up. “We were inseparable. When she died… it felt like she took part of me with her. That’s how I love, babe. I love with all my heart. And when that’s ripped from my chest… I don’t have a reason to go on anymore.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“You mean…”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Quentin nods. He finally lifts his head. There are tears in his eyes and Peter’s heart clenches in sympathy._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _He didn’t expect this. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _A moment later, he drops the duffel bag and closes the distance between them. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _“I’m here,” he says, clasping Quen’s face between his hands, and anything beyond that is silenced by the desperate kiss that Quentin presses against his mouth. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Soon, he’s grinding their groins together and clawing at Peter’s clothes, acknowledging every apology that Peter gasps out with jerky nods as he works both of their zippers down. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Afterwards, Peter puts all the clothes he packed back into their closet. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Quen marinates the chicken while they’re waiting for a rare splurge on take-out over which they will discuss any changes Peter wants to make regarding how they do things. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _By the end of the night, Peter can’t believe he ever truly considered leaving._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta merlenhiver deserves a standing ovation for their patience and persistence while on Pacing Police duty ♥
> 
> PS: I'm thinking about doing a Q&A video on this fic for my YT channel! Would anyone be interested or have questions?


	12. twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have 6k of fictional drama to escape the real-life one unfolding all around us...  
No, seriously though, I hope this brightens your day and provides some reprieve.♥ Sending you virtual hugs! I'm safe and sound in rural Bavaria, away from the big city of Berlin, where I'll stay for the next three weeks. Which I'll use to WRITE. I know I say this every update that the next one won't take so long, but I mean it every time. *hides*
> 
> Oh, warnings for Quentin being epically awful in this chapter, and an ending that fills me with writerly glee :)

Tony runs a hand over his face and heaves a sigh. 

The matrix of his current tasks that JARVIS projects into the space in front of him doesn’t shrink. If anything, it grows by yet another email to write or another call to return. 

Tony blames sobriety – if he hadn’t quit drinking, he never would have exploded with ideas like that, and he’d still be able to keep his head above water.

“If I may make a suggestion, sir,” Carol says from somewhere near the kitchen island, undoubtedly preparing another vegetable-infused snack to force on him in exchange for letting him take work into his quarters instead of attending… whatever Pepper asked him to attend. “Have you considered delegating?”

“Isn't that the point of my entire company?”

When Carol doesn’t reply, Tony can’t curb his curiosity any longer and turns around to see what she’s up to. 

“Hey, put that carrot down! What the hell, you wanna give me vitamin A poisoning?”

“You’ve uncovered my master plan,” Carol says, deadpan, and drops the carrot into the blender with what looks like half the produce section at Whole Foods.

Like the minx she is, she switches it on before he can ask what she was aiming at, which of course means that Tony’s much quicker to agree to drink her concoction in order to get her to share. 

“Several of your tasks involve legwork that is, quite frankly, way above your pay grade, sir. I understand that you wish to be in the loop about each of your projects, but you could still do that while forming project-specific teams to be overseen by you as necessary. It saves time and would enable you to train experts in each of these areas early on, which would benefit future expansions once the projects come to fruition.”

Tony sets down the now empty glass. “You’ve thought about this.”

She nods.

“You’ve already got a plan, don’t you?”

Of course she does, cause she’s way too good for her job and Tony can’t believe she’s been content with the pay raises he’s offered her so far. 

She even has a list of suggested candidates prepared for each project, from the next gen cyber security software that Tony invented (or thinks he did, still too early to tell how effective it’s gonna be), to a consumer AI that’s way superior to anything they or their competition have issued so far, to be integrated into the newest update for the Stark Phone – which will also feature new materials to increase durability, and, to top it all, mass production of arc reactor technologies to replace boring batteries. 

Well, ‘mass production’ might be pushing it… for now. 

Almost all of Carol’s recommendations meet Tony’s approval, except for one. 

“Exchange Thompson for Parker and you got yourself a deal, Colonel.”

“Parker?”

“Yeah, starting his third year of co-op, poached by Beck to assist in Stark Medical and way too busy to reply to my messages. That Parker.”

Carol cocks an eyebrow. “If I remember correctly, sir, he asked for that transfer.”

“And Bucky only agreed cause he wants the kid to broaden his engineering horizon. So I say let’s let him loose on arc reactors, see what he comes up with.”

Carol clearly doesn’t buy his pretext, but then again, he didn’t expect her to. As long as she executes his order, she can think whatever the hell she likes – Tony’s too worried to care anymore. 

Whatever happened between Peter and Beck, it made the kid stick to the guy like superglue instead of ask for a break. They arrive at work together, leave together, eat their home-made lunch together. Peter’s like a well-trained dog, hyper-aware of any indication on Beck’s part as to what he wants or needs. 

And the worst of it? Tony recognizes so much of himself in the behavior and how he was with Pepper that it makes it hard to simply stand by and watch. 

So he doesn’t. 

He also doesn’t confront Beck and tell him to get the hell out of Peter’s life like he yearns to do during his darker moments. 

Instead he transfers Peter to the arc reactor task force under the guise of furthering his skills and providing him with a broader glimpse into the areas of his field, thus keeping him as far away from Beck and his holography adventures as possible within the confines of the Tower. 

Physically, at least.

“Earth to Peter.”

The kid startles upright from where he’s been not-so-covertly texting underneath his desk. 

“You know,” Tony adds, “some places charge up to five hundred bucks a pop to hear me speak. I guess I gotta revise my rates if I’m this boring.”

The other members of the team, all six of them, try and fail to stifle their chuckles like the mature adults that they are. Peter dissolves into flustered apologies, and diligently puts his phone away. 

It’s reason enough that the others won’t suspect when he asks the kid to stay behind once the meeting has ended. 

“I’m really sorry, Tony,” Peter says as soon as the door is closed. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Good, cause I need you focused, alright? The world’s energy sector won’t revolutionize itself,” Tony quips, then steps closer, letting his expression show his concern. “So, what was so pressing? Anything wrong?”

“Uh, no, it’s – I mean, I don’t think so? Just, um, Quen’s been really down about my transfer and I was reassuring him, you know? Texting him that I’m thinking about him.”

“Would he like you to jeopardize your career for that?”

Peter blinks, then shakes his head. “I’ll talk to him.”

Tony can’t think of anything more to say, so he dismisses the kid, but in his mind he’s already formulating a new strategy. 

His goal to keep Peter at work for as long as possible kills two birds with one stone – it provides some obviously much-needed space between Peter and Beck while also furthering the team’s objective. 

Cause the kid and fusion? A match made in heaven. 

Nowhere near Tony’s level of brilliance, of course, but within a month, Peter has proven himself a valuable asset to his teammates, who finally stop teasing the kid about his inexperience.

“And then he said, ‘What about recycling the decay in the reactor itself?’ and I swear,” Tony says, “Nadja was two seconds away from throwing a fit cause she’d just explained how that’s not possible, but then he –”

“Proved her wrong by calibrating a simulation faster than anyone’s ever seen before,” Bucky interrupts with a groan. “Shuri already told me. Spent ten minutes gossiping about it, even. Keep talking and I’ll assassinate you with a dumpling.”

To underscore his threat, he lifts the next one from his plate with a glare, and Tony quickly changes the topic…

… only to cycle back to Peter a few minutes later. 

What? The kid’s brilliant and he’s dating a possibly abusive dick, and Tony’s not gonna stand idly by and let this play out. Peter deserves a hell of a lot better than _Mysterio_ of all people, and no, Tony doesn’t just believe that cause Peter’s got the makings of a next gen Tony Stark, regardless of what Barnes thinks.

Okay, so he told Bucky about his suspicions. In his defense, Bucky was getting nosy and Tony was starting to fray from keeping all this to himself, which Barnes actually noticed cause seriously, dating’s been so good on his social skills that Rogers deserves a medal or something.

Anyway. It’s about more than Peter’s potential as an engineer. The kid’s the sort of genuinely good person you rarely find anymore. The kind whose first instinct is to help, who won’t shy away from hard tasks if they make the world better, and who indulges Tony’s ramblings over lunch when he’s not feeling stable enough to go anywhere they sell alcohol. 

So he prods. Asks pointed questions. Sees the insecurity flare in Peter’s eyes before the kid manages to school his features. 

As much as Tony would love to just go out and confront him with the unhealthy nature of his relationship to Beck, he knows that would have the opposite effect. Peter needs to come to this conclusion on his own, and Tony’s certain he will. Kid’s way too smart not to. 

Yet when the moment finally arrives, it doesn’t lead to the happy ending Peter deserves. 

Far from it, in fact.  
*  
“And now, allow me to introduce the man who started it all,” Ms. Potts says once she has reached the end of her speech, ensuring that the attention of every one of the three-hundred guests is fixed on her. 

Peter knows what’s coming. He’s rehearsed it often enough. 

“Quentin Beck!”

At the sound of applause, Quen turns towards Peter with a smile. He goes along with the little act and sends his partner off towards the podium with a kiss that’s mostly show.

Quentin’s speech is great – brilliant, in fact. Yet even the world’s best speech will lose its appeal when you’ve been listening to your boyfriend repeat it for days on end. Peter can recite it by heart by now, including the phrases that tend to give Quen trouble and are most certainly going to prompt an irate word-by-word replay later tonight. 

At least the crowd is enthusiastic and immediately swarms Quen once he’s gotten off the stage to talk about how his research laid the foundation for what is to become the Bruce Banner Fund For Binarily-Augmented Retro-Framing Therapy after this night’s donations helped launch it. 

“I still contend that a Halloween theme would’ve made this much more fun,” Tony comments as he joins Peter in his half-hidden corner behind the decorative pillar. “I already had a costume and all. But no, Rogers had to veto it.”

Peter feels his lips curl into a smirk. “I thought it was Dr. Banner who did?”

“Bruce doesn’t get a vote.”

“I’ll remind you of that next time you’re relying on him to back up your batshit ideas during staff meetings,” Bucky says from somewhere behind them, and only now does Peter notice he planted himself right next to the employee door Bucky chose to hide behind… which somehow comes as a surprise to Tony. 

“Hey, why aren’t you mingling, buddy? That was the deal with Rogers; I stay all night as long as you’re also coming and work that handicapped charm on our wealthy guests!” 

Bucky grumbles something Peter doesn’t catch but Tony apparently does, and the two are off, bickering in that politically highly incorrect way of theirs that has Peter check for cameras or other recording devices.

Just as the three of them decide to brave the masses again, Peter notices that Quentin has joined Steve and that they’re in animated conversation with someone Peter vaguely remembers as someone important.

“Yeah, say hi to Ms. Mutlu from me, I gotta freshen up,” Tony says with a straight face and vanishes while Peter and Bucky share a grin. 

Tony and Vefika Mutlu, head of the leading real estate agency on the east coast, notoriously don’t get on, if only cause Tony refuses to sell certain building blocks to her (“And let her jack up the rent three-hundred percent on my long-time tenants? Fuck no.”) or appear on her popular YouTube channel (“And help her make even more money? Nope.”).

So Bucky and Peter join the group without him — not that Quen minds much, judging by his expression. 

“Hey babe,” he says, pulling Peter close before introducing him as his partner. 

“That can’t be easy,” Vefika says, shaking Peter’s hand, “sharing your life with such a gifted man.”

“Oh, don’t let the adorable puppy look fool you,” Quen says before Peter has a chance to reply. “He’s smart in his own right. One of the most promising co-op students at the company. Fortunately not gifted in my field of expertise, or we’d be getting in trouble with the bylaws...”

Quen has always been better at small talk, and besides, tonight is about gathering donations, not impressing famous people with his accomplishments, so Peter doesn’t intervene. The conversation continues mostly without both his and Bucky’s input. 

The longer it goes on, the more Bucky looks like he’s accidentally got bitter lemon instead of lemonade in his glass. Steve notices, of course – but how that leads to Steve pulling Peter away shortly after to introduce him to Everett Ross, he can’t explain. Not even when Ross turns out to be quite knowledgeable in fusion technologies. 

“Rogers wanted to leave me alone with her,” Quen says later that night as they’re placing their suits and shirts on their respective hangars. “She always keeps her donations private. Weren’t you listening this morning?”

The honest answer is _no_, Peter realizes with a flash of guilt. He ducks his head. 

Quen pauses on his way to the wardrobe, shirt open and already down to his underwear, obviously waiting for a reply.

“Sorry.”

Peter hates seeing this disappointed look in Quen’s eyes. He knows better than to justify his actions though, cause admitting to tuning Quentin out would lead to an argument Peter can do without.

It’s a relief when Quen’s gaze turns indulgent. “Oh babe,” he sighs, and pats Peter’s cheek in passing. “Good thing I’m such a lenient boyfriend. Get ready.”

Peter nods as the bathroom door clicks shut behind Quen. He makes it until stepping out of his underwear before a thought occurs to him.

_Is he, though?_

Granted, Quen doesn’t expect miracles, but… Well, he expects prompt replies to messages, immediate return calls in case Peter can’t answer his phone, complains when Peter takes too long in the mornings or wastes time on his phone when he’s got a task to complete. 

And he most certainly won’t be pleased if he returns from the bathroom and finds Peter staring into space instead of prepping himself on their bed. 

That’s what couples do, though, right? Make each other better? As Quen likes pointing out, he’s saving Peter from his worst tendencies by harping on these things. 

Peter takes a deep breath and fetches the lube. 

It’s not until Sunday after the Halloween fundraiser that the thoughts resurface, along with an uneasy feeling that coils in the pit of his stomach, in the midst of their weekly meal prep routine.

Or rather, _his_ weekly meal prep routine, cause Quen needs the time and space to undergo his skin care ritual and this is the only period it comfortably fits. Don’t get him wrong, Peter doesn’t mind cooking, but considering he’s also responsible for taking care of grocery shopping, he finds the distribution of chores a bit skewed, if he’s honest. While they’ve implemented some changes to their finances, including a set budget for Peter’s discretionary spending, their routines haven’t evolved on par. 

Maybe they’re in a rut? That might explain why Peter finds himself looking forward to work more than returning home, with all the challenges and problems and learning opportunities. 

It’s gotten to a point where Peter prefers his lunch breaks with Tony (which are more like _‘I don’t remember what time it is but JARVIS locked me out of my projects so I should probably eat something’_ breaks) to dinner with his boyfriend. 

“And what, you’re not allowed to feel like that?” Tony asks the next day during just one of those breaks when Peter voices his guilty conscience to him. “Bullshit. You’ve got every right to feel however the hell you want.”

“But it doesn’t make sense! I mean –“

“Emotions rarely do, young Padawan.”

It’s moments like these that Peter almost regrets Tony went to rehab and got the PhD equivalent of knowledge about the human psyche crammed into his brain as a side effect. 

“Should I talk to him?” Peter eventually asks. “I mean, it’s… We could adapt. Change things up?”

Tony makes an expansive gesture with his hands which Peter considers to mean, ‘Yeah, go ahead, kid.’

He does, that very evening. 

It doesn’t go well. 

“We could see if Chase is in town,” Quentin says in a strange tone. “I’m sure he’ll be up for round two.”

“No, no, I don’t mean – not sexually,” Peter hurries to say. “Just… other things.”

Quentin gives him a hard look. “You’re bored.”

“I, no, it’s not –”

“Bullshit. Don’t lie to me, Peter. Don’t be that guy.”  
“I’m not –”

“What, our lifestyle not enough for you? Is this about the visit? To California, to see Ned? Because if this is your way of trying to guilt-trip me into letting you fly across the entire country on your own, to one of the most dangerous places on the West coast –“

“Quen –”

“I thought you’re better than that, Peter. I thought you care more about us than some chick’s party, but apparently I was wrong.”

“It’s not – I’m going there for Ned!” Peter says, cause it’s the truth. He hasn’t seen his best friend in way too long and Ned asking him to join him as his plus one to the birthday party of San Francisco’s ‘Queen of VR gaming’ (cause Ned’s girlfriend got an invite of her own) is too good an opportunity to pass up on. “And I said I’ll use my third-year bonus to pay for it.” 

“Which you won’t get for another six months.”

“If you hadn’t stolen my previous bonuses, I’d have more than enough right now!”

It’s out of his mouth before Peter has a chance to think through his words. The effect it has on Quentin is as immediate as it is chilling. 

“Right,” he says, tone clipped. “I apologize if my attempts to salvage our finances and set us up for a future are getting in the way of your social activities. Since you’re so savvy, Peter, how about you take over? Just for a month, to prove you’re so much more knowledgeable than I?”

The derision in Quen’s voice is grating, but Peter doesn’t let himself react to it. 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he tries as calmly as possible. “We agreed that I’d get to use my next bonus any way I want, and that’s what I wanna do with it. So I’ll book my flights, put in on my card, and pay it off with part of my emergency fund, then put my entire bonus in there to make up for the interest we’ll miss out on.”

He truly thinks he’ll convince Quen with showing that he was paying attention to Quen’s explanations, but his boyfriend’s expression only grows cloudier. 

“_Your_ emergency fund.”

Peter blinks. “Ours, I mean.”

“For which you’ll need my consent to withdraw any money from.” Quen smirks. “Which I won’t give. Guess you’re staying put.”

With that, Quentin exits the kitchen, leaving Peter to blink after him. 

“See, that’s why you _never ever_ pool all of your assets!” Tony shouts from across the workshop where he’s rummaging through what looks like a box full of old screws. “And yes, I know you won’t accept me paying for the tickets, so I’m not gonna even offer, never mind that it’s – yes, huzzah!”

Tony obviously found the one screw he was looking for, some ancient thing twenty years out of production that he’s replicating to this day cause God forbid he update the gears of DUM-E’s locomotion system (“It’s vintage! Guess you’d also put a new engine in a Porsche 916!”) Why he doesn’t keep the specs on file to access for 3D-printing remains a mystery to Peter, but he suspects part of it is tradition, considering the box is older than Tony himself and has the initials HEWS carved into the side. 

Not that he’d ever ask, cause he’d like to keep his workshop privileges very much intact, thank you. They include putting oil on DUM-E’s gears, which is beyond awesome – and another thing Quentin and he would argue about. 

“Cause, well,” Peter says off Tony’s questioning expression, then bites his lip. He knows they would, can even imagine the scoffing sound Quen would make, but he can’t seem to find the words to express it. 

Somehow, though, Tony gets it. “Yeah. Pepper and I had the same thing. Only she didn’t get my obsessions and that I’d gladly function on zero hours of sleep and three gallons of coffee if it means I get to finish a project or… It was either change or avoid, and when changing didn’t make things easier I basically turned on my heels every time I was about to run into something problematic.”

Peter finds himself nodding along cause yeah, it rings a bell. “Like, uh, like not telling him the cafeteria was out of quinoa salad the other day so I had pizza.”

Tony’s face does something complicated then. “Oh, kid.”

“What?”

“Nah, ain’t having this talk when you’re covered in motor oil. Let’s finish up and have some, some tea or something. What the hell do you offer people when there’s no booze in your house?”

Peter knows a rhetorical question when he hears one and besides, he's way too distracted by how serious Tony sounds to think about replying. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Tony this somber about anything, apart from… _Oh._

Him and Pepper. 

Knowing what’s in store doesn’t prepare Peter any better for the conversation that follows. He recognizes himself in too many of the situations Tony describes to gloss over. If it had just been the social aspect of it – Quen harping on how Peter spends his time much like Pepper did with Tony, both to the effect that they caved and bent over backwards to meet their partner’s expectations… or rather, are bending over, in Peter’s case. Quentin and he are still together, after all. 

Anyway. The social aspects alone would’ve been okay, but then Tony delves into more intimate areas and… Well. 

“So by the end of our relationship,” Tony concludes, “she had me trained up real well, see, I knew exactly how to please her and was too chicken shit to ever speak up for my own desires cause I’m difficult enough as it is as a boyfriend, least I can do is make that easy for her in the bedroom, right? Only took me a stint in rehab to realize how fucked up that is. If someone doesn’t accept you the way you are, they’ve got no business calling that love.”

Peter’s throat has gone dry at the fire in Tony’s eyes. “But what if – what if they just want what’s best for you?” 

“And how’re they supposed to know?”

When Peter hesitates, Tony plunges on. 

“Cause believe me, kid, the best judge of what’s good for you is no one other than your own fucking self. Only you know what you really want out of life. What makes you happy. Where your priorities lie. And if yours don’t match up with your partner, then guess what? You simply ain’t compatible.”

There’s no doubt in Peter’s mind that Tony isn’t merely talking about Pepper and him anymore. But Quen and he, they fit. They make a great team. 

“Doesn’t ‘team’ mean you’re equals, though? Or did they change the definition? Damn, I knew I should’ve kept up that subscription to the Merriam-Webster newsletter,” Tony says, tone drenched in enough sarcasm to power an entire episode of _Last Week Tonight_.

“But we are,” Peter protests. “Equals.”

Tony arches a challenging eyebrow yet doesn’t go on. In fact, he changes the subject altogether, and Peter can’t shake the weird feeling in his chest that has returned with a vengeance. 

He blames it for what happens on Thanksgiving. 

It’s his first-ever holiday without his family, but they’re forgoing Thanksgiving dinner at May’s in favor of participating in a charity drive for the Bruce Banner Fund For Binarily-Augmented Retro-Framing Therapy (“Or ‘Banner Fund’ for short cause BBFFBARF is a really terrible acronym,” as Tony likes to say).

As usual, Peter plays his part in the game and lets Quentin have the spotlight, and he’s fine with it cause seriously, no one needs to hear a beginner’s take when they have the expert right there. He doesn’t mind that he’s mostly there as arm candy.

What he does mind is Quen refusing to let him leave when he receives a call from May that she’s at the Emergency Room. 

“You heard her,” Quen says, “she’s fine. A couple of stitches and she’ll be on her way home.”

“I don’t want her to be alone –”

“And she won’t be. There’s enough staff to look after her. Babe, I need you tonight. Please.”

“My aunt is hurt! She wouldn’t have called if she didn’t want me to come.”

“All she has is a cut. Don’t be such a drama queen, Peter.”

That settles it. 

“I’m going. Don’t wait up,” he says, then turns around towards the exit. 

Quen catches up with him halfway to the coat room, spinning him around with a hand on his shoulder that Peter ducks out of as soon as possible.

He doesn’t expect to be shoved right up against the wall a split-second later. 

“Peter, stop it,” Quen hisses. “Your aunt is an adult and she can take care of herself. She doesn’t need you. So get your ass back in there and pretend like Mr. Greyson’s anecdotes are the funniest thing you’ve heard all week.”

Quen’s fingers close around his arm and then yank him forward. He almost stumbles but catches his balance in time to avoid face-planting on what’s probably very hard, very expensive stone flooring. 

Peter spends the rest of the event fuming silently. 

Predictably, Quen explodes the second they’re behind the closed doors of their apartment. 

“What the hell, Peter? You had one job tonight, and you couldn’t even do that right. What’s Greyson gonna think of me now, huh? You ever thought of that? Your actions have consequences, Peter, and if you jeopardized our relations with his company, believe me, Ms. Potts is going to hear about it.”

Maybe it’s the mention of Pepper. Maybe it’s the way Quen’s looming over him with obvious intent to intimidate. Maybe it’s the fact that Peter was able to imagine exactly what Tony would say if he told him about what happened tonight. 

Whatever the reason, something in Peter gives. 

“Fuck you,” he says, meaning every syllable, and storms into the bathroom. 

He’s never stormed out on Quentin before. Ever. 

The guilt rising in his chest almost makes him turn on his heels and go back to Quen, but Peter squashes the impulse as soon as he notices it for what it is. With a sinking feeling, he remembers Tony’s words from a short while ago. 

But no – Peter isn’t ‘trained’. Doesn’t storming out prove that? 

“Babe,” Quentin’s voice sounds through the door, tone soft and soothing. “I’m going to come in, alright?”

“Leave me alone,” Peter snaps, and it feels so good it makes him lightheaded. Or maybe that’s just the adrenaline gradually leaving his system. 

“The door doesn’t have a lock,” Quen points out, though remains on the other side all the same. 

If Quen didn’t view him as an equal, he wouldn’t do that, would he? 

_See Tony_, Peter thinks, _we’re a team._

“Please, babe. I’m sorry I shouted at you. I know you’re aware of what you did, and I know you’ll regret it eventually. You’re smarter than that. You just make me so mad sometimes, babe. I love you, faults and all.”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. Quen loves him, flaws included. He accepts him the way it is. They aren’t like Tony and Pepper. 

He opens the bathroom door. 

Quen is in his space immediately, eyes big and apologetic, and Peter fits himself into the embrace.

When Quen pulls back, Peter tilts his head upwards cause he really needs a kiss right now to ground himself. Quen, however, mistakes it for an invitation to make out in the dim bathroom lights. Peter pulls away, expecting Quen to get the memo, but all he does is tighten his grip on Peter’s hips and press forward even more forcefully. 

“Quen,” he manages between kisses, “stop.”

One of Quentin’s hands slips further back, wriggling its way underneath the waistband of Peter’s pants, while the other goes up to caress the side of Peter’s neck. 

“Quen…”

Another kiss. 

“I, I’m not in the mood.”

“Shh,” Quen whispers against his lips. The fingers on Peter’s neck press down briefly before continuing their stroking. “Just wait. You’ll get in the mood.”

As if to prove his point, the hand that was on Peter’s ass finds its way to his groin instead, and Peter himself is surprised by the vehemence of his reaction. Every fiber of his body seems to be shouting ‘NO’ at the same time, and he tries to slip out of Quen’s grip without thinking it through, cause there’s still a hand on his shoulder.

A heartbeat later, Quentin has turned him around and molded himself against Peter’s back, rubbing an obvious erection against the swell of his ass.

“See what you do to me, babe,” he breathes against his neck. “Come on, I need you right now. Need to be inside you. Please, babe.”

“I said stop,” Peter says, louder this time, and does his best to throw off the arm across his chest. 

He manages – for all of one second. 

Then pain explodes across his cheek and the force of it makes him stumbles against the wall. 

“And I said,” Quentin snarls, voice tight and expression filled with fury, “that I need you.”

When Quen makes for him, instincts take over and Peter evades the hands that reach out. Peter never thought he could ever be afraid of Quentin up until this very moment, and he all but sprints past him, down the hallway and into the kitchen, where he skids to a halt on the other side of the island counter.

The entire right side of his face is on fire from the force of Quentin’s blow but Peter refuses to wince and show how much it hurts. While Quen didn’t give chase, he enters the kitchen mere moments later, his expression heavy with displeasure before he manages to school it into the apologetic air that Peter expected. 

_He’s not even sorry_, Peter realizes with a start. 

Followed by, _That’s the third time he hit me._

His thoughts seem to slow down and speed up at the same time after that. Or maybe it all happens at once, Peter couldn’t care less. All he cares about is the sudden knowledge that he has to get out, get out _now_, cause he can tell Quentin’s already gearing up to talk him into forgiving and forgetting, and if Peter doesn’t put a stop to it, that’s exactly what’s gonna end up happening. 

“I’m leaving,” he says, meeting Quentin’s gaze with finality. “For real this time. I need…” He swallows. “I need space. I need to not be here.”

Quentin purses his lips but doesn’t argue. 

Peter pushes the bewilderment away in favor of fetching his laptop bag from the couch and packing everything he’ll need to make it to the Tower in record time. He’s sure Tony’s offer still stands, and Peter doubts burrowing some money to buy clothes until he can get his from their flat will prove much of an issue. 

By the time Peter is putting on his jacket, Quentin has joined him in the living room, leaning against the wall holding the newest additions to Quentin’s media coverage collection. Even though it’s the same person, Peter feels he doesn’t recognize the guy standing there, arms crossed, observing Peter’s actions with an unimpressed gaze. 

“I’m serious, Quen,” Peter says. “I’m going now.”

“No, you’re not.”

How can Quen be so calm? Where are the frantic apologies, where’s the promise he’ll never do it again, where are the ‘I love you’s?

It only throws Peter for a moment, then, with a dark “Watch me,” he closes the remaining distance to the door. 

Just before he can push the handle down, however, Quentin sighs. 

“You give me no choice, babe.”

Peter hesitates, against his better judgement, and waits. At least he refuses to look at Quentin… until he pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and opens an app. A few clicks later, a hologram appears, projected into the air above the screen. 

It takes Peter a second to make sense of what he’s seeing, but yeah. That’s the laptop he spilled coffee on months ago, sitting inside of what is unmistakably the padlocked drawer of Quen’s office desk. 

The laptop that holds ultra-sensitive data and wasn’t reported compromised or missing by Peter, cause Quentin said he’ll take care of it. 

“I don’t wanna do this, babe, but you leave me no choice,” he says again, no trace of regret in his tone. “If you walk out that door, I will ensure this laptop is found in the possession of Everett Ross at OSCORP. It contains enough company secrets to earn you a corporate espionage charge. In the unlikely case they drop the charges, you’ll still have a permanent mark on your record. I doubt the company will let you return as a co-op student. You’d never work in engineering again. Is that what you want?”

“But you said –”

Quentin sighs. “And you trusted me so much that you didn’t check. What am I always telling you, babe?” Quen closes the projection and pockets his phone. “I hope this will serve you as a lesson.”

“Quen…”

“Sh,” Quentin whispers, coming closer. “I’m only doing this for you, babe. You’re not thinking straight.”

Peter takes a step back, then another. He can sense the hard wood of the door a few inches behind him. It’s the only reason he’s able to resist jumping out of reach when Quen brings up a hand to caress his cheek. He still flinches, though, and manages to evade Quen’s fingertips.

A flash of irritation flickers across Quentin’s face. He lowers his hand. 

“I’m going to bed. Join me when you come to your senses, babe.”

His retreating footsteps echo in the silence.


	13. thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I can’t thank you enough for all the love the last chapter received from you! I am so, so thrilled I’m eliciting actual capslock and such strong emotions ♥  
Secondly, I hope each and every one of you is safe and okay. Living through history is exciting, sure, but also quite scary. I for one lost my main source of income and am stranded in Bavaria, Germany, during the state’s (and the nation’s) lockdown measures. At least I can use the time to further my writing projects, so there’s a silver lining. Sending you hugs, wherever you are!
> 
> Alright, shutting up now xD Here comes the next chapter!
> 
> **Content warning** for dub con and bad BDSM elements.

The silence that Quentin leaves in his wake chills Peter to the bone.

Part of him wants nothing more than to run, consequences be damned.

Another, more reasonable part of him, stops long enough to think past his knee-jerk reaction. 

_Corporate espionage._ That’s... that’s the sort of crime that lands you in jail for a decade or more. And even if Peter eventually manages to convince a judge he has been set up (which, judging by the state of their country’s current legal system, doesn’t seem all that likely), allegations like that leave a mark that will never ever vanish from his record. No company worth applying to would even take his calls, let alone offer him a position. Quentin wasn’t exaggerating when he said Peter would never work in engineering ever again.

He can’t let this happen.

But he also can’t stay with Quen, especially in light of, well... Blackmail seems such a harmless word for what Quentin’s doing. You blackmail a stranger or a rival, not the person you love. 

He must have planned for this, must have had this contingency plan in mind as soon as he offered Peter to take care of the laptop. Probably even prior to that.

The more Peter dwells on it, the more insecure he gets. Did he just meet the real Quentin Beck for the first time, or was he there all along?

Tony saw it, Peter realizes with a start. The pointed questions, the subtle offers of help. 

Only he was too naive to face the truth.

Dread pools in Peter’s stomach as the extent of the situation dawns on him. 

He’s trapped. 

He has no money of his own, no friends except for Ned, with whom he hasn’t Skyped in weeks. The last time he talked to May, she obviously had company and little time for him. 

And if he stays with Quen, there’s no way to know how far he is willing to go to keep Peter at his side.

_Damned if you do, damned if you don’t._

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. It only makes the tears fall quicker. 

*

Quentin spares him not a single glance when he enters their bedroom. He’s propped up against the headboard, tablet in his lap, shirtless and probably naked except for a pair of boxers underneath the sheets.

Peter can’t look at him, so he hurries into the bathroom. Brushes his teeth. Uses the loo. Washes his hands. 

Quentin is still there when he gets back. Still reading as if this were just another evening in their lives. 

Peter’s legs refuse to close the distance between him and the bed. 

Eventually, Quentin heaves a sigh and locks his tablet. “Babe. Come on.”

Only then does he look at Peter. He’s not sure what he expected to see in Quentin’s eyes, but his next words escape him before he can think better of it. 

“I thought you loved me.”

Quentin’s expression mellows. “Of course I love you, babe.”

“Then why — why’re you...” Peter can’t finish the sentence. 

“Oh babe,” Quen says, placing the tablet on the bedside table and getting to his feet. He takes a step towards Peter, who still can’t seem to move. “Just cause we have our differences now and then doesn’t mean I’m gonna give up on you.”

“Differences,” Peter echoes numbly. 

Quentin nods. Takes another step. Slowly raises his hand but drops it when Peter flinches as soon as he reaches for his aching cheek. 

“I don’t wanna hurt you, babe. Ever. But you… You’re not the easiest guy to be with.”

“Then let me go.”

Peter hates how pleading he sounds, but at least he’s arguing. 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Quen says, shaking his head. “Now come to bed, babe. It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Peter says and even manages a step towards the door. 

Quentin is up and in front of him so quickly he doesn’t even register the movement until it’s over. Quentin’s expression is still calm, but his gaze is hard. 

“You won’t. I told you to come to bed, and that’s what you’re going to do. Think of your future, babe. Are you ready to throw all that away for a little spat?”

It’s hard to make sense of what he’s hearing, let alone process it.

Even harder still to come to a decision. 

In the end, Peter chooses the option that allows for the most variables. If he defies Quentin now, he’s ruined. If he stays, he can find a way out. Cause there _will_ be a way out. There has to be. 

Peter climbs into bed. Quen presses a kiss to his temple. 

“Knew you’d do the right thing, babe.”

*

He’s awake long before their alarm, not that he got much rest to begin with. For the first time in years, Peter would rather be at the gym than in bed, but he knows better than to act on his impulse. 

Quentin loves to start the day with Peter in his arms, and the threat of Quen setting him up is still too fresh on his mind to tempt fate. Not to mention that he has yet to read up on all of the ideas he developed while staring into the darkness with Quentin sleeping peacefully next to him.

Meaning he can’t really refuse when Quen asks him – going so far as to say ‘please, babe’ – to join him in the shower, where he proceeds to touch Peter like nothing has changed. What used to feel nice now leaves Peter’s skin burning, and judging by the stiffening of Quentin’s cock, his partner likes every last second of it. 

Quen isn’t subtle about the fact he wants a blow job, all pointed looks and sly smiles, and Peter figures he might as well take the easy way out. He barely remembers it after they’re done. 

At work, Peter dodges Tony to the best of his abilities (which isn’t hard when you know him as well as Peter does and have enough of a grasp of physics to send Tony off onto an experimentation bender) and explains the faint bruise on his cheek away as losing a fight with the prototype of their MK IV. Peter’s prone to accidents around heavy machinery, so no one grows suspicious. 

Once the last of his colleagues has left for lunch, Peter drops what he’s doing and makes for the laptops at Flash’s desk, cause if he’s lucky then – yes, Flash didn’t log out of his account. 

Grinning for the first time in about twenty-four hours, Peter dives into his research, then purges every last trace of it from the browser history. He has the number of the domestic violence hotline memorized as well as those of three other help lines, fully aware that he can’t call them from his personal phone since Quen monitors his every move. 

At least he’s being proactive. 

The surge in motivation that comes with it carries him through the next seventy-eight hours. By the beginning of the week, he has a plan: the only way to undermine Quentin’s ploy is to make the first move. Seek outside counsel, admit to hiding the laptop to Shuri and Tony, have SI security find it in Quen’s possession, go on record about his behavior… and he’s free. 

Just one more night to get through. His last night with Quentin. He can do this. 

Peter’s resolve lasts through dinner and all the way through their making-out session on the couch. If he doesn’t think about it, his body does all the work for him. It’s ridiculous how far muscle memory and years of practice can take you. 

It’s only when they reach the bedroom and Quentin suggests the ball gag that his spirits falter. 

“I… How about a blindfold?” Peter offers, even though they used it two nights ago and Quentin tends to like variety. 

As expected, Quentin shakes his head, then settles onto the mattress.

Right. Peter always has to fetch the toys. 

He does, but his hands shake too much for him to fasten the ball gag behind his head, so he either has to ask Quentin or keep trying. 

He opts for the latter, but Quen runs out of patience after another minute and slaps his hands away with a tsk. Peter can’t meet his eyes. 

At least Quen’s going to fuck him from behind, so he won’t notice – 

“On your back, babe.”

Oh. Okay, Peter can do that. 

Wearing a gag always makes him feel a little foolish, but Quen likes it when he blushes, and tonight is no exception. He even spends a few moments massaging Peter’s prostate as he stretches him open. 

When they start in earnest, however, it’s more difficult than usual to focus on the pleasure. Maybe it’s the way the straps of the gag are digging into his cheeks. Maybe it’s Quen’s insistence to “Look at us, babe, see how beautiful we are,” referring to their reflection in the mirror. Maybe it’s the forceful pace Quen sets – or maybe it’s all of the above. 

Peter’s starting to genuinely fear he won’t be able to pull this off tonight when Quentin stops on a particularly hard thrust.

“Don’t you agree?”

With the gag in his mouth, he can’t really reply, so he conveys his ‘Of course’ with a roll of his hips. 

Quentin arches an eyebrow but says nothing.

Peter swallows. What’s he angling for?

He arches into Quentin’s body again and reaches out to hold onto Quentin’s shoulders for better leverage, yet before he can work Quentin’s cock like he thinks he’s meant to, his arms are pinned against the mattress and suddenly Quentin’s face is a lot closer to his own. 

“Then why are you trying to leave me, babe?”

Peter’s blood runs cold. Quentin _can’t know_, he simply can’t, he took every possible precaution and purged the browser history every single time, how the hell – 

“You’re using work computers,” Quentin says as though he can read Peter’s mind. “They’re all connected. Victoria showed me how to keep an eye on you weeks ago. I hoped I’d never have to go so far, but you left me no choice, Peter.”

By now, the panic coursing through his veins must be showing in his eyes. Maybe that’s why Quen chooses this moment to start moving again. 

“I thought you understood,” Quentin says, pulling out and thrusting in again. “I love you too much to let you sabotage this, Peter.” Another thrust. “Look at me when I talk to you.”

Peter can’t, and one of Quentin’s hands releases his shoulder but grips his chin instead, fingers so tight the pain brings tears to Peter’s eyes. 

“That’s it,” Quen whispers, and part of Peter still preens at the praise no matter how much he tries to deny it. 

Quentin’s gaze is gentle, but his fingers keep digging into the skin of his cheek and shoulder, and he keeps fucking into him with quicker and quicker thrusts that never seem to end. It takes every ounce of Peter’s self-control to maintain eye contact while Quentin chases his own pleasure. 

When he finally feels the familiar sensation of Quentin’s climax, though, there’s no relief. It’s like he’s been hollowed out, like his body is but a shell in Quentin’s arms, free to maneuver as he pleases until his head is resting on Quentin’s chest. 

“We’ll leave it until morning,” Quen murmurs, fingers brushing over the strap at the back of Peter’s head as he strokes his hair. “Alright, babe?”

*

When Tony falls silent, Bruce looks up from his workstation. “And?”

“And I’m gonna tell you, alright, but that explanation’s gonna take at least three minutes, even at my talking speed,” Tony says, “and we only got another forty-five, maybe sixty seconds before Pepper’s gonna barge in here.”

He finishes with a grin, which for some reason doesn’t inspire confidence in Bruce. 

“What did you do?”

“It’s more about what I _didn’t_ do,” Tony says, fully expecting Bruce’s put-upon sigh as he resigns himself to witness another one of Pepper and Tony’s regular disagreements that never fails to send the SI rumor mill into overdrive.

Pepper bursts into Lab 5 a few moments later, all righteous indignation and perfectly controlled hand gestures. 

“What do you mean, you’re not going?” she demands, exactly like he expected her to. 

“Just what it says on the tin,” Tony quips and steps away from Bruce cause this might get loud and his friend still gets upset when Mummy and Daddy fight. 

“You can’t skip Vegas! You never skip Vegas.”

Which is technically true – the city’s Spring Consumer Electronics Show has become the unofficial Stark Industry Expo of the new decade and Tony’s keynote speeches have about sixty million hits on YouTube between them. Their stock always skyrockets after the event and pre-orders for whatever new gadget they unveil are through the roof…

“… so why would you risk all that?” Pepper says, crossing her arms in that confrontational way that has long since inspired a #girlboss meme. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tony shrugs. “Why would I wanna go to the entertainment capital of the world in my fourth month of recovery? No, you’re right, I take it back, that’s a brilliant idea. Lemme pack my cocaine stash while I’m at it.”

It has the intended effect: Pepper blanches – for all of two seconds – then switches straight into problem-solving mode. She’s on board with all of his suggestions in record time. 

Bruce? Not so much.

“Why would you want to send him? Shuri I get, but Beck’s technology is nowhere near consumer-ready.”

“What can I say, I’m a nurturing boss,” Tony says, flashing a grin and quickly switching the subject. 

Bucky is less surprised by the whole thing and infinitely more helpful. 

Apparently some of Rogers’ PR genius has rubbed off on him, cause he’s about as subtle as a cat that spotted a mouse when it comes to explaining why there is simply no way for Peter Parker to take off the time required to join Beck in Vegas. 

“I was under the impression that Peter is assigned to your task force, Mr. Stark,” Beck says from across the meeting table, “which has moved past critical stages of development.”

“All the more reason I get to snag him,” Bucky answers in Tony’s stead. “Unlike some, I got deadlines to meet.”

Tony vows to have JARVIS pull the video records of that room and blow up a screenshot of Beck’s pissed off expression, cause it’s priceless. 

Long story short, Beck’s off for an extended weekend getting his ego stroked by strangers in Las Vegas, and Tony can finally talk to Peter about what’s going on. 

Cause the kid? Still a shit liar. 

Granted, he isn’t lying outright, but his constant evasions and ‘I’m fine’s are about as convincing as Bucky’s ‘I’ll get right on it’ on a Friday night. 

Fact is, Peter is so far from ‘fine’, he might as well be in a different universe. The passion burning in him – fission pun intended – has dimmed considerably. He’s less focused, seems tired all the time and spends even more energy on fretting over food choices than usual. Last time Tony ordered take-out for the task force when their additional Saturday session ran long, you’d have thought Peter was trying to calculate infinite decimals of π judging by the way he was looking at the steaming cartons. 

Maybe with Beck several thousand miles out of State, the kid’s gonna start talking.

No such luck. 

“I don’t fuckin’ get it,” Bucky grouses, even while stealing a fry off Rogers’ plate and popping it into his mouth. “Kid’s clearly miserable, why ain’t he left already?”

“It’s not that simple,” Rogers says, exchanging a heavy glance with Tony, who’s long since finished his burger cause damn, he was ravenous. Turns out ten-hour programming benders aren’t as easy as they were ten years ago. Even if he has figured out a way to sync up miniature arc reactors with consumer-level apps. 

“… and even if they want to leave, abused partners often don’t have the resources to escape their situation.”

“Then fucking give ‘em to him!” Bucky says. “If he can’t do it himself, just –”

“No,” Rogers cuts in. “That’s the worst we could do. It has to be _his_ decision. You can’t force someone to leave an abusive relationship; you wouldn’t be any better than their abuser.”

Hang on, when did Rogers get so knowledgeable? Funnily enough, Bucky seems as surprised as Tony. 

“I volunteer sometimes,” Rogers explains, shifting on his spot on the sofa. “At the Red Room. It’s an organization that helps survivors of domestic abuse.”

“Oh, and you couldn’t have mentioned that earlier?” Bucky snaps. “Damn punk.” 

“Peter _knows_ about the Red Room. His aunt volunteers there, too. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s gotta be his choice, Buck.”

“Don’t mean we can’t push him.”

“And a week later, he’ll be back with his fella. Doesn’t work that way.”

“Says who?”

“Says decades of research and countless cases I’ve witnessed since I joined the Red Room. You’re not listening –” Steve continues, but Tony’s had enough. 

“Stop bickering, ugh. You’re giving me cravings.”

Bucky sends him a flat look. “You can’t play the recovery card forever.”

Steve gasps, affronted on Tony’s behalf, who merely chuckles. “Watch me.”

He’s not sure when Bucky knowing about Tony’s suspicions became _this_, aka open discussions on how to best help the kid, but Tony thinks it’s closely related to the fact that post-rehab Tony and Rogers get on infinitely better and thus sometimes spend time together outside work. 

Turns out to be a blessing, really, cause the more people to keep an eye on Peter, the better. 

Without their little session, Tony would have never learned from Bucky that Peter spent all day on his feet, and consequently wouldn’t have paid extra attention on Sunday when he strides into Bucky’s workspace where Peter is diligently helping his mentor meet his (totally legit and not at all made-up) deadline. 

Peter doesn’t sit down all that often while working, so at first Tony doesn’t understand what Bucky’s on about. It’s when he notices how Peter constantly adjusts his stance and can’t seem to find a comfortable position that he starts to get it.

But of course, Peter’s ‘fine’. 

Tony makes it until late afternoon before what little restraint he had gives. 

“You know, it’s been a while since I used them,” he says as matter-of-factly as possible when he hands Peter the next cybernetic limb for its final check. “But I always heard you shouldn’t wear a plug for more than three hours at a time.”

Peter barely manages to catch the leg he dropped before it hits the floor. “Uh…. what?”

“Butt plugs. You know, these insertable things some people put in their asses? Pepper liked to wear them every now and again, so I know what it looks like, but never for more than a couple of hours. It’s been, what, all weekend? Course you’re feeling the effects.”

By now, Peter has blushed bright red and he can’t meet Tony’s eyes.

“Come on, kid,” he says, softer and more serious this time. “Talk to me.”

Several seconds pass in silence and Tony’s starting to regret his full-frontal approach, but then Peter takes a deep breath and lifts his head. 

“I really like wearing them,” he says, jaw set and defiance in his gaze, though if the thinks that’s gonna stop Tony he’s got another thing coming. 

“Just not that long, right? Too much of a good thing, and all that. No need to pretend with me, kid, I’m not gonna tell.”

That garners him a shrug, so Tony keeps going.  
“And hey, if you wanna pop into the bathroom real quick and take a break, go for it. We’re doing pretty well so it won’t make us fall behind.”

“Nah, it’s… I’m good.”

“Really?”

Peter nods but damn, the look in his eyes tells a different story. Tony feels his heartache cause who’d ever want to make this brilliant man suffer, for any period of time? 

Before he knows it, Tony has reached out and placed his hand on Peter’s arm. The kid startles at the contact but forces himself to relax a moment later. Emboldened, Tony gives him a soft squeeze. 

It takes what feels like ages until Peter lifts his eyes again. Even longer till he breathes out audibly and stops blinking so rapidly. When he eventually speaks, his voice is so low Tony almost doesn’t catch it.

“I can’t take a break. I… it’s a smart plug. He’d know.”

“And what, he told you to keep it in till he’s back?”

Peter’s blush deepens as he nods. 

Beck’s been gone since Thursday evening and won’t be back till Tuesday night. Tony has half a mind to take his private jet and go to Vegas only to drag the guy onto the plane and then kick him off at forty thousand feet, yet while this might make Tony feel better, Rogers was right – they can’t take away even more autonomy from Peter.

Nothing says he can’t help him cheat, though. 

“Cheat?” Peter echoes, blinking at him.

“Hey, we’re engineers! We got everything we need to make artificial limbs. How hard can it be to make a cybernetic anus?”

_Yes_, Tony’s aware how that sounds, but he’ll take the sexual harassment charges any day should anyone be recording this if it means he’s helping Peter, thank you very much. 

He shoots off a quick message to Bucky telling him to stay the hell out and that they’re taking a detour, then has JARVIS run some initial calculations.

In the end, it takes three hours, five failed prototypes and more puns than Tony can (or wants to) count, but eventually they have a fake anus that will make the plug think it’s still where it’s meant to be. Peter even stopped blushing at some point.

He’s back at it once they’re done, though, cause Tony sends him off to the bathroom with a “Do it for science!” cry and a salute. 

SI is deserted by this time on a Sunday evening, yet even if it were bustling with co-workers, they’d be none the wiser cause, in a fit of genius engineering, Tony and Peter designed the, um, _receptacle_ to look like a vase. A very weird vase, granted, but Tony’s seen stranger decoration around the houses of affluent people. It comes with a convenient bag for easier transport that’s going back into the workshop for storage right before Beck returns.  
For the first hour and a half after implementing their cheat, Peter keeps glancing at his phone every couple of minutes, probably cause he expects their plan to fail and Beck to call. 

If it were anyone else, he’d find this lack of faith in his abilities quite insulting, but in Peter’s case, he knows it has nothing to do with that. The kid has low enough self-esteem thanks to Beck’s manipulations for the both of them. 

By the time evening rolls around, though, a huge chunk of the tension has melted off Peter, and they finish the entirety of their ‘rush order’ in record time. 

“That calls for a celebration!” Tony decides. “Barnes, tell Rogers to get his bubble butt upstairs, I’m treating you all to hot pot and dumplings.”

Bucky grumbles something about annoying nosy coworkers, but hey, it’s not Tony’s fault JARVIS alerts him any time a non-resident enters the personal quarters of his Tower. 

Of-fucking-course Rogers takes issue with this.

“You say ‘breach of privacy’,” Tony interrupts the guy’s complaints, “I say ‘necessary vigilance’. Can’t be too lax nowadays.”

“You already got keypads and fuckin’ scanners everywhere,” Bucky says, and to Tony’s surprise it’s Peter who jumps in with an explanation. 

“Well, yeah, but those can be hacked – and besides, it’s not the same,” Peter says. “Alerts add another level of security. It’s like with asset allocation; the more you diversify, the better.”

“Kid’s wise beyond his years,” Tony praises with a grin, which morphs into a pointed stare a second later. “But don’t think this is gonna get you out of trying the dumplings. We gotta settle this once and for all.”

He directs a slightly exaggerated glare at Bucky, who catches on quite fast, fortunately. 

“For fuck’s sake, Stark,” he sighs, “_char siu bao_ aren’t better just cause they got more dough. It’s about the filling!”

“Well, they got barbecued pork! Your argument is invalid.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Tony notices Peter and Rogers exchanging puzzled glances, which he can’t fault them for considering how the whole scene is just a pretext in order to get Peter to start eating already. 

“Seriously, kid, I didn’t order them to end up as decoration on your plate.”

“Oh, I… I’m not that hungry. Sorry.”

Tony doesn’t need to look at either of the others to know they’re calling bullshit, too. 

“Really? Cause I’d think you’d be ravenous by now.”

Peter shrugs. 

With a glance, Tony passes the proverbial torch to Rogers, who asks in a gentle tone, “Don’t like dumplings?”

“Just not hungry.”

“They’ll keep,” Steve simply says, then takes Bucky’s wrist. “Let’s grab some tinfoil.”

Bucky’s reluctance to follow is probably fifty percent put-upon, Tony assumes, yet the flash of panic on Peter’s face is completely genuine. He catches himself in the blink of an eye, but not soon enough for Tony not to notice. 

Once the other men are definitely out of earshot, Tony sets down his chopsticks with a sigh.

“He making you keep a food diary now?”

Peter says nothing. 

“Or is it just that he wouldn’t approve, or what? Simple carbs for dinner no good?“

“I... I’m really not that hungry, Tony.”

“That why you ain’t able to look me in the eye?”

Peter refuses to rise to the bait. 

“Come on, kid. Talk to me.”

Tony holds his breath as he waits. Peter’s clearly yearning to say something, but at the same time he seems, well… afraid? What’s he think Tony’s gonna do, tell him to suck it up? 

He bites his tongue, though. Patience doesn’t come easy to him, but he knows pushing won’t do either of them any good right now.

It pays off: Eventually, Peter swallows and admits, “I don’t wanna have to lie to him.”

“About…?”

“About eating stuff I know I shouldn’t.”

“Dumplings on that list?”

Peter nods. “And white rice. Not good for my blood sugar.”

“So what?”

It’s a genuine question. Tony has a hunch, but he prefers to base his theories on actual evidence rather than mere conjecture. 

“I… I wanna stay in shape.”

“Alright, but don’t you think you’re taking the ‘you are what you eat’ a bit far?” Tony says, then explains at Peter’s utter lack of appreciation for food-related puns (which, okay, maybe not the best timing, granted), “Just cause you’re eating them doesn’t mean you’re gonna turn into a dumpling.”

At least the corners of Peter’s lips quirk a bit. Other than that, however, he remains silent. 

Tony gets the distinct impression he’s missing something; it’s like Peter’s only scratching the surface with his reasoning, but Tony has no idea how to ask without actually, well, asking. It’s not like, “Hey kid, what’s that abusive bastard of a boyfriend doing to you?” is gonna lead them anywhere productive. 

What Tony can do, though, is tell Peter to accept the take-away care package that Rogers and Barnes are gonna present him with, then leave it in the elevator so he doesn’t actually have to take it home. 

“You – you sure?” Peter asks, all wide-eyed surprise and unspoken questions, and Tony hopes his nod communicates all the empathy and support he can’t find a way to voice. 

Later that night, twirling in a formerly broken office chair Tony stole with the intention of upgrading it at some point while DUM-E wheels the tin-foiled package away to what passes as the workshop kitchen, Tony can’t stop thinking about Peter. 

A thousand different solutions present themselves in a matter of seconds, from paying Beck off to staging Peter’s kidnapping and giving him a new identity (hey, any port in a storm, right?), but Tony can’t follow through on any of them. There’s a huge chance of his plans blowing up in his face – or just outright failing – and he can’t risk Peter being off worse than before. 

He’s not one for sitting on his hands, though. Even if he wanted, he doubts he could stay away from Peter at this point (when the kid became an integral part of his everyday life, Tony doesn’t know). He’s gonna have to figure out other ways to help Peter, without Beck catching on. 

Good thing Tony never shied away from a challenge. 

Peter re-inserts the plug two hours before Quentin’s due to return. He leaves the cybernetic… uh, anus… in the workshop as per Tony’s suggestion and tries to focus on his current task, but it proves in vain.

Shuri takes pity on him at some point and sends him home early, which gives Peter more time to prepare dinner than Quen expects. He makes something that’s gonna reheat well cause all of Quentin’s texts have been about ‘checking on the toy’ and Peter feels guilty enough as it is without wasting food. 

Which is bullshit, he knows, considering what Quentin did to him (_is doing to him_), but he can’t control his weird emotional reactions any more than he can force his body into enjoying the touch of Quentin’s hands on him since that night. 

“So beautiful, babe,” Quen coos as he spreads the bare cheeks of Peter’s ass. Quen smothered him with kisses as soon as the door clicked shut behind him, then told him to strip before anything else. 

Now he’s bent over the back of the sofa, a fully-clothed Quentin behind him. 

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, pulling at the base a bit. “I kept checking the logs and you were perfect, babe. Did it help? Did it make you miss me less?”

“Only a bit,” Peter says, hoping that’s what Quentin wants to hear, and is rewarded with kiss at the base of his spine. 

“Don’t worry, babe. I’m back now.”

The fuck that follows is one of the longest Peter remembers. Or maybe it’s just that time has slowed considerably in Peter’s subjective perception. Either way, it leaves him hollowed out and sore, even – or maybe especially – after Quen allowed him to come. 

Unfortunately, the hollowness doesn’t become permanent. Life would be a lot easier if Peter could be numb to it all the time, but then Tony asks him to consult or Bucky takes him on a long lunch or the task force has to stay after hours to finish something or other, all of which chips away at the walls he’s trying to shield himself with. 

Especially Tony. 

Time they spend together, no matter why, always ends up being the highlight of his day. While Bucky and sometimes Steve come at him with pointed questions and worried looks, Tony respects his boundaries. He hasn’t pushed any food on Peter since the dumpling incident and he stopped stashing treats in the workshop when he knows Peter’s gonna be around and be tempted.

He also never asks how things are with Quen. 

Peter doubts he could come up with a good-enough answer. 

*

The equilibrium breaks on a Thursday in late April. 

By now, Peter has developed a routine that makes the day-to-day almost bearable, and Quen can’t take issue with it since it involves a lot of studying for the finals that Quentin wants him to excel at.

What he failed to calculate is the potential for study-inspired breakthroughs concerning his work projects. 

“Got an early Board meeting,” Tony tells him in the morning when Peter seeks his advice on the adaptions of the carbon fiber shell he’s been tasked with (and no, the fact that he’s actively helping design the next gen StarkPhone has not sunk in yet). “Then I’m all yours.”

The meeting is about Quen and William’s current project, Peter knows, cause Quen hasn’t been able to talk about anything else than their request for funding in the rare moments he’s actually able to spend time with Peter that don’t involve sex. 

Based on Quentin’s confidence, Peter assumes getting approval from the Board is a foregone conclusion, so it comes as quite the shock to find Tony visibly upset when he joins him in lab three as planned.

“Defense contracts!” Tony shouts in lieu of greeting and continues pacing about the room. “Those bastards were gunning for defense contracts! Not on my watch, buddy.”

“I thought they’re building training modules?”

“Oh sure,” Tony says with a sneer, “cause that’s exactly what the military’s gonna use them for if we hand them armed drones with the capacity to create illusions that’ll win the best CGI Oscar for a decade running!”

“Armed?” Peter echoes, alarm mounting. 

Quen and William must have realized that there’s no way they’d get that past Tony.

“They did,” Tony agrees when Peter says as much, “they’re not that stupid. No, they got approval from up top.”

Peter narrows his eyes and takes a closer look at his friend. There’s anger, oh yeah, but it isn’t the only emotion rolling off of him. 

“Ms. Potts?”

The clench of Tony’s jaw is answer enough. 

Peter gets why it feels like a betrayal to Tony. After all, Pepper was among the most vocal of those who supported him when he shut down SI’s weapon program.

“I get that the Board would get a boner from the profit margins alone, but Pep? What the hell is wrong with people?”

Peter has no idea – he’d like to know that himself – but he recognizes a rhetoric question when he hears one. So all he does is listen as Tony goes on, listing all the reasons he’s not gonna betray his principles and change company policy for a few million dollars, which resulted in him needing to make use of his veto rights as majority shareholder. 

“You shoulda seen the look on everyone’s faces, kid; you’d think I’d announced I’ll be personally funding the Taliban instead of stopping two megalomaniac idiots who just won’t get it.”

Tony finally stops on a huff, running a hand over his face, but Peter finds himself at a loss for words. He tries to pack all the compassion he’s feeling into his look when he meets Tony’s eyes but somehow, it’s not enough. His friend is genuinely hurting and he wants to – needs to – help. 

So Peter goes for the one thing he can think of. 

He hugs Tony. 

He’s obvious enough about his intentions that Tony has the chance to decline in case he feels too vulnerable, but nothing like that happens. Instead, Tony wraps his arms around him after a moment’s hesitation. 

They’re of similar height, so Peter can rest his cheek against the side of Tony’s head and finds that he enjoys the feeling of stubble against his skin. Tony is a warm presence against his chest and the arms on his back should probably feel confining to Peter but they don’t. He knows he’s safe here, after all. 

*

Tony can’t quite explain why a simple hug makes him feel better, but it does. 

Peter gets it, is the thing, he gets why Pepper’s nonchalance hurts so much, why the thought of going back to producing weaponry that will cause more harm than good is such a nightmare to Tony. 

So yeah, he lets the hugs go on a bit longer than it probably should, yet in his defense (pun included), it’s been a while. 

When he eventually pulls back, there’s a quip at the tip of his tongue but he squashes it. Peter is obviously fine with this, so he doesn’t need to deflect or distract from the moment that’s passing between them. 

Judging by the soft smile Peter sends him in response to his silence, the kid’s on the same page. 

Neither of them notices their audience before it’s too late.


	14. fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, here we go! The chapter I think we've all been waiting for... I sincerely hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it ♥ 
> 
> I'm currently working on chapter 16 but since I've run out of detailed outline, the process is a bit more challenging than I'd like xD I truly appreciate your patience, dears. 
> 
> PS: General content warning for this chapter.

Peter takes a deep breath, then slots his key into the lock. 

Part of him hopes Quentin went straight from work to the bar with his gang, but the strip of light underneath the door dissuades him of that notion quicker than he could say ‘fingers crossed’. He’s home, then. 

Peter braces himself as he steps into the dimmed LEDs of the skylight.

Rather than pacing the room, Quentin sits in one of the armchairs they only ever use for sex. Steam still rises from the two mugs resting on the coffee table.

The request is clear, and Peter doesn’t know what else to do than to comply. 

He doesn’t touch his mug. Neither does Quentin. 

“I heard,” Peter whispers when the silence becomes too uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I know you and William worked really hard.”

Quentin regards him for a moment, then heaves a sigh. He sounds resigned rather than angry, which… huh?

“You can stop pretending, Peter.”

“What?”

“I know you’re not sorry.”

“I… but I am,” he tries around the lump in his throat. 

Cause it’s sickeningly true, he finds. It’s like he’s having double vision but with feelings – one version of Quentin is the blackmailing bastard who showed his gruesome colors at last, the other the man Peter fell in love with and spent a huge chunk of his life together. 

“So what’re you gonna do to make me feel better? Give me a hug?”

Quentin’s tone gives Peter pause. The only reasonable explanation for the question would be – but no, it can’t… 

“I saw you,” Quen confirms, and Peter’s stomach plummets. “We figured we’d give Stark one last chance to see the error of his ways, so we sought him out. Can you believe how humiliated I feel, Peter? My partner, the love of my life, in the arms of Tony Stark?”

“He’s my friend –”

“Bullshit,” Quen snaps, shooting to his feet. “I see the way he looks at you!”

Peter never makes a conscious decision to move; his reflexes take over and he’s off the sofa in a heartbeat, hands raised even though he knows the gesture won’t calm Quentin down. 

“What’re you talking about?”

“Please,” Quen scoffs, advancing on him. “Like you don’t encourage him. You love it, don’t you, little cockslut?”

“We’re not sleeping together!”

“I thought you loved me, Peter. All those words, all those promises… Nothing but lies.”

“No, I…” Peter feels his back bump into the kitchen island as Quentin keeps walking. “Quen, stop. You’re scaring me.”

His eyes flash. “Good.”

Later, Peter won’t really recall what happens next. His memory is hazy, like he’s viewing everything through a fog. Maybe that’s cause his higher brain functions give way to primal instincts and he ducks under Quentin’s arms when he launches. 

Quen hits the island on a _thud_, but Peter doesn’t turn around as he sprints towards the front door. He didn’t lock up behind him but he forgot that the door opens towards the inside, which costs him valuable split seconds. 

He can hear frustrated growls behind him as he sprints down the corridor, aiming for the door to the stairwell. He considers getting out on the eight floor and shouting for help but he’s got no idea whether their downstairs neighbor is in yet or not, so he keeps taking the stairs two at a time, passing seventh, sixth –

And collides with the closed fire door. 

Peter fumbles with the bar, pushes, pulls – 

Shit. It’s locked.

What’s worse, the footsteps behind him have stopped. When Peter turns around, he finds Quen smirking. 

“Did you really think I’d let you get away so easily, babe?”

*

Unfortunately, the effects of the hug don’t last forever, and by the time evening rolls around, Tony doesn’t trust himself enough to be on his own. 

According to JARVIS, Bruce is still in the Tower, so Tony makes his way to him in record time. He almost backtracks when he sees Bruce is packing up his stuff (bless their interior designer’s boner for glass walls), but it’s either this or run serious risk of sniffing out any remaining alcohol in the building and he figures Bruce would prefer Tony bugging him if asked. 

And it speaks volumes of the depth of their friendship that he doesn’t have to. Bruce simply puts his bag back down and talks him through the progress he’s made with their soon-to-be-trademarked ‘retroFRAME’ technologies. 

Tony lets it wash over him, mind drifting in a sea of opportunities and possible enhancements… and almost misses when Bruce says, “Well, I can’t be certain until I’ve had Beck check the simulations, which won’t be until tomorrow. I know we said we wouldn’t go down that path until we’d at least –”

“Beck’s a big boy, he can handle it.”

Bruce blinks, so Tony clarifies. 

“The simulations. Seriously, buddy, the guy can feel sorry for himself on his own damn time.”

“And I assume that’s what he’s doing.”

Now it’s Tony’s turn to blink. 

“Beck went home at two,” Bruce says, then continues with his explanations like it’s no big deal. 

Maybe it isn’t… but there’s a nagging sensation at the back of Tony’s head that won’t let him focus on anything else.

“Hey, yeah, let’s continue this tomorrow, alright? Don’t wanna keep you any later,” Tony says and is out of the office before Bruce has a chance to react. 

Employee records confirm that Quentin Beck clocked out at 2.03pm, which is highly unusual cause Beck’s the type of person who never leaves before six, not even when he got the message that Tony was gonna change the direction of his research. So why is today different?

Tony flicks through CCTV recordings in the immediate aftermath of the Board meeting, only to find nothing out of the ordinary. Sure, Beck and whatshisname, the drone guy, are both livid and obviously cursing Tony’s mere existence (he’s not any good at lip reading, but their expressions speak for themselves), yet that was only at 12.34pm and neither of them even goes near the punch clocks. 

Tony speed-watches them continue their agitated discussion over lunch and eventually calm down. They exit the cafeteria like two men on a mission but what could they be planning after Tony shot them down so thoroughly – 

Hang on. 

With a gnawing sense of foreboding, Tony traces their progress on the recordings. He never wanted to be wrong about anything so much in his life, but well, when does he ever get what he wants?

Sure enough, Beck and whatshisname come to an abrupt halt outside lab three. 

The angle doesn’t reveal what they see that makes the other guy’s eyes widen and Beck flush with fury, but Tony doesn’t need it to. 

On the pixelated footage, Beck hisses something at his colleague before stalking off. He spends the next hour pacing the length of his office before, and shortly before 2pm, he grabs his jacket. 

Tony checks the time – 7.14pm. Peter’s records have him clocked out at 6pm on the dot. 

_Shit._

He flings himself into the closest elevator with a barked “Garage!” and speed-dials Peter, but his call goes straight to voicemail. 

He has JARVIS calculate the fastest route to Peter’s address (privacy concerns be damned) and beats even J’s most ambitious estimates despite having opted for one of his sturdier models. 

He double parks next to a pretentious Porsche and is out of the car without checking for traffic. Annoyed honking follows him all the way into the lobby of the building, where he realizes he didn’t check which floor he’s aiming for. 

“J, triangulate Peter’s position based on his last signal,” he says into his phone when he’s blessedly alone in one of the elevators, fingers hovering over the numbers, ready to push the second that JARVIS –

“Mr. Parker seems to be on the ninth floor.”

The ride feels like an eternity, but at long last, Tony finally arrives at the front door of – thank fuck – _Beck and Parker’s_ apartment, according to the sign next to the bell. 

He rings once, twice, three times. No answer. 

Tony knocks. “Kid? Hey, Peter? You home?”

Silence. 

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Pepper tells him to _calm the fuck down and think about this for a second_. Breaking and entering isn’t fit for a CEO, especially without probable cause. And what if Beck’s home after all, playing possum, just waiting for Tony to do something stupid like kick the door down? 

Well, that’s easy to determine. 

Tony wouldn’t even need J’s help to locate Beck’s phone but it’s quicker, and no matter how often his inner Pep tells himself to take a deep breath, the sense of urgency doesn’t leave him. 

GPS confirms that Beck is several blocks away, either in a bar or at someone’s place, Tony doesn’t care to find out. 

He inspects the keypad next to the door with a critical eye. It’s simple enough to circumvent the alarm system and disengage the locking mechanism (he makes a mental note of the manufacturer cause they’re making it way too easy), and Tony pushes inside the apartment the second he can. 

He catalogues subtle signs of a struggle – cracked frames, a display case with missing panels, tea stains on the sofa – but refuses to dwell on them. It’s the specks of blood on the wall to his left that make him head down the hallway, past the open but empty bathroom and into – 

_Fuck._

Tony’s breath catches in his chest.

The sheets and Peter’s clothes have obviously been changed, but nothing can hide the contusions and lacerations on Peter’s arms and face. Tony stares at the split knuckles for a full three seconds (_hope you got him good, kid_) before he manages to convince his feet to carry him closer. 

No matter how many times he calls Peter’s name, the kid doesn’t stir. No number of gentle prods to the shoulder make his eyelids flutter. He’s definitely out cold. 

“Sir,” JARVIS’ voice cuts through the silence. “GPS data suggest that Mr. Beck is on the move.”

“Where?” 

But Tony already knows the answer.

*

There’s a lot less pain than Peter expected when he wakes again. 

Memory is a fuzzy thing, yet part of him is certain he should be feeling a lot worse. Unless… No. Quentin stormed out the second he had thrown the sheets into the washer. 

Then why does it feel like he’s been patched up? 

He tongues his lip, tasting for dried blood and finding nothing. There’s a bandage on his shoulder where it should be sore and raw. His knuckles ache with the faint trace of antiseptic. 

Peter startles upright. 

He’s… he’s not home. What the – 

“Oh kid, thank the gods,” comes a familiar voice from the other side of the room, and a moment later, Tony is there, eyes flicking up and down Peter’s body as though checking he’s still in one piece. “How’re you feeling?”

“Where am I?” Peter says, voice thin and raspy, yet the panic in his tone must have carried cause Tony confirms his darkest fear instantaneously. 

The Tower. Of all the places… 

“I’ve gotta get back,” Peter says, and tries to climb out of the bed, which would be infinitely easier if his left leg weren’t elevated for some reason. 

“Oh no, don’t you dare! You’re not going anywhere near that bastard ever again.”

“You don’t understand,” Peter says, not even caring about the panicked edge to his voice, “I can’t – if he gets back and I’m not there, then –”

“He’s already back; I got you out just in time. Fuck, the state you –”

“What? No, Tony, shit, you don’t – I’ve got to –” 

The rest of Peter’s sentence is lost to a pained gasp. He got as far as sliding his legs off the bed, but apparently whatever painkiller is coursing through his system only goes so far. 

“You have to rest,” Tony says, motioning him back into bed, “Bruce was adamant, really. Should’ve seen him; practically made me swear on my sobriety.”

Peter’s brain short-circuits. “Dr. Banner?”

“Well, I woulda called an ambulance, but seeing as I was speeding away from your place with you passed out on my backseat, I figured it might look a bit suspicious.”

Dr. Banner knows. Tony knows. 

Quentin is back at their apartment and Peter is nowhere to be found. 

He’s ruined. 

Apparently, Tony interprets his shocked silence as acquiescence and launches into a detailed explanation of Peter’s injuries and how to care for them. The epidermal burns on his arms are just superficial cause fortunately, the tea wasn’t scalding anymore, but there’s still gonna be some swelling and pain once his current dose of meds wears off. Cracked ribs are never fun, and the cut on his shoulder needed seven stitches. 

Peter guesses he should be grateful his maxillofacial injuries aren’t that severe, but knowing Quentin, that’s probably intentional. _Wouldn’t wanna hurt that pretty face._

“And last but not least, you got several contusions on your left leg. Bruce wants to do an MRI just in case, but he doesn’t think anything’s fractured or broken. He’ll be right back with a couple of ice packs and then we can see if you’re up for that MRI or if you’d rather get on the ‘rest’ part of RICE. Or the rice part of RICE. By which I mean food. I guess Beck didn’t feed you before he went all Norman Bates on you?”

Tony cringes when his joke falls flat. “Too soon?”

Peter shrugs, eyes fixed on the band aids covering his knuckles. Two fingers of his right hand are even taped together for some reason. 

“Oh yeah, fracture to the fifth metacarpal bone,” Tony supplies. “Had one of those too, back in my boxing days; Happy wouldn’t stop apologizing but hey, least it showed you fought back.”

“I didn’t,” Peter hears himself saying, cause it’s true, cause fighting back wasn’t an option, not with the threat of the laptop hanging over him. Not that Tony would know.

“Not every kind of resistance looks the same, kid.”

He probably intended it to sound reassuring, but all it does is flood Peter with another wave of shame and dread. It was all in vain. Everything he did to placate Quentin, everything he did to buy himself time to find a way out. 

His life is _over_, and it wasn’t even his choice.

Peter has never felt such an intense surge of anger and struggles to keep his composure or else he’s going to start shouting and he doesn’t know whether or not he’ll ever be able to stop. 

Tony, though, cause he’s trying to be a friend and supportive, keeps prodding and suggesting they document his injuries and hey, what about going on record, which is the bit that finally makes Peter crack. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until his vision grows blurry.

Tony flounders for a moment, then produces a tissue box from somewhere in the room and looks like a kicked puppy when Peter gives in to his first impulse, which is to shove it away. 

“Sorry, kid,” he says immediately, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m getting ahead of ourselves here; we’ll do this at your own pace, we got time.”

Peter snorts. No, they don’t. 

“What? Why?”

Peter blinks. Apparently, he said that out loud. “Uh…”

At that, Tony regards him more closely. Peter isn’t surprised when he picks up on the fact that something more’s going on, cause if anyone can read him like a book it’s probably Tony. 

It still doesn’t make it any easier to divulge the entire story. 

*

When Bruce returns, he encounters them mid-argument. 

Tony finds himself on the receiving end of one of the most impressive Stares of Disapproval he’s ever seen Bruce muster, but nope, he can’t bring himself to regret getting Peter the hell outta there, no matter how fucked up his situation now is as a result. 

“It won’t matter, he’ll have a plan –”

“Then we gotta come up with a better one,” Tony says, “which shouldn’t be so hard, cause hey, genius here!”

“May I remind you both that my instructions were to let Mr. Parker rest?” Bruce interrupts, already moving between Tony and the bed to get a closer look at Peter. “Whatever this is can wait.”

“Exactly!” Tony agrees, but Peter is having none of it. 

“The only way I’ll have any chance to salvage this is going back to talk to him. If I’m back before dawn, I can make it seem like I ran and changed my mind, and I’ll make him believe me –”

“I’m not letting you go back there!”

“You’re not the boss of me!”

“Well, Beck isn’t either,” Tony snaps, “so how about you act like it?”

He regrets it the moment the words leave his lips, but then it’s already too late. One would’ve thought sobriety would have cured Tony of his ill-advised statements, but oh no, he’s capable of them all by his non-intoxicated self. 

“How about,” Bruce says into the echoing silence, “we all take a step back? I’ve sent for some oatmeal and tea for Mr. Parker, and Tony, I’m afraid you need a shower. If you still wish to leave afterwards, Peter,” he adds kindly, “then you’re of course free to do so.”

Tony makes to object until Bruce cuts his eyes at him. 

_Fine._

He stalks off without another word. 

*

Dr. Banner’s parting words still echo in Peter’s ears. 

_‘No matter how much trouble you’ll be in, Mr. Parker, Tony always finds a way to help. Don’t insult him by doubting his loyalty to his friends.’_

Mechanically, he lifts another spoonful of oatmeal to his mouth and swallows without really tasting it. He’s had practice at that, these past few weeks, he thinks. 

And how fucked up is it that he’s actually able to chuckle at his own bad jokes? 

His eyes fall on the tea. There’s no more steam rising from the mug. It’s better that way. Peter feels his forearm itch where the liquid hit him. 

How likely is it really that Quen’s going to believe him if he comes back? That he didn’t check their building’s CCTV and spotted Tony Stark storming the place? 

Peter wants to laugh at his own foolishness. How deeply warped has his view of reality become that he even believed for one second he could play Quentin and walk away victorious? 

He can’t undo what Tony did. He can’t go back to how things were, no matter how scary the unknown is that lies ahead. 

Tony wants him to go on record. Document his injuries. Promised him the best legal help in the city as well as to defend him against any allegations of corporate espionage… and hey, if the boss of the company you allegedly spied on clears your name, which judge in their right mind is going to convict you?

Against all reason, hope blooms in Peter’s chest. Maybe not all is lost, after all. 

*

After his MRI and taking photos, he sleeps for ten hours straight. He doesn’t dream, for which he’s grateful. He barely does anymore, so he wasn’t overly worried in the first place. 

Besides, the warm smile that Tony gave him when he said goodnight was bright enough to chase all negativity away. Peter just hopes Tony’s joy at Peter accepting his help will continue throughout the morning, which is filled with legal appointments. 

Or was supposed to be, at least. By the time ten o’clock comes around and Tony still isn’t back, Peter grows uneasy. What if Tony changed his mind? What if his council advised him not to touch Peter’s case with a ten-foot pole? 

No, Tony wouldn’t do that. He vowed he’d be there, so he will. 

Patience has never been Peter’s virtue, so at quarter past, he dons the spare clothes Tony got him from his locker last night (cause he’s not wearing anything that Quentin chose ever again) and picks up the crutches Dr. Banner provided. As expected, all he sustained were bone bruises, but they still hurt when he puts weight on them. 

It takes a bit to get the hang of walking with crutches, but soon Peter ventures out of the guest rooms that served as his own personal medical wing with relative ease. 

Inside the elevator, he pauses as he reaches for the panel. 

“JARVIS,” he tries. “Where is Tony?”

“I am not at liberty to say, Mr. Parker.”

Which, most of the time, translates to ‘in a meeting above your pay grade’. Peter shrugs and figures he might as well take Tony up on his offer to help himself to the food in the penthouse kitchen. Not that the pain meds leave him with much of an appetite, but if Dr. Banner drilled anything into him, it’s to keep his strength up. 

What he sees on the TV screen when he settles in with (sugar-laden and artificially flavored, because fuck you, Quen) cereal, however, he promptly drops his spoon. 

_SI EMPLOYEE SPEAKS OUT: “TONY STARK ACTIVELY SABOTAGED ME”_ the headline under the glaring BREAKING NEWS banner proclaims. 

“Unmute,” Peter says, yet goes ignored. 

He limps towards the screen and tries it manually, but JARVIS seems intent to keep him in the dark. Numbly, he makes his way to the living room, cause he knows Tony keeps spare tablets about everywhere in the penthouse. 

Which won’t unlock at his touch like they usually do. 

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. “JARVIS, please.”

He tries again. And again. 

Finally, the AI takes mercy on him (or maybe he had to check with Tony for permission) and Peter is able to get a full picture of what lies Quentin has spun. 

He wishes he hadn’t. In fact, he’d much rather go back to sleep and stay ignorant for the rest of his life, cause any hope he might have had? That’s gone. 

“I should’ve seen it right when it started,” a miniature Quentin says to a reporter somewhere off-camera, face pinched in consternation that looks nothing but genuine. “I should’ve ended things the first time he lied to me about visiting Stark. But I was too blinded by love.”

The digital exclusive has been up on Mashable for three and a half hours and looks nothing like the rush job it certainly had to be, in case Quen only reached out to the site last night after he found Peter gone. Yet the more he watches, the more certain Peter gets that this has been planned for far longer than the past twelve hours. 

There’s audio, for fuck’s sake. 

_‘So, we all set, kid?’_ Tony’s voice. Playful.

_‘Yeah,’_ Peter hears himself say. _‘Just gotta wait for the right moment, then we’ll spring the trap.’_

_‘Bye bye, Mr. Beck.’_

_’He won’t know what hit him.’_

_‘Gawd, I love you.’_

_‘I love you, too.’_

Quentin’s self-deprecating statements would’ve been perfect without the recordings he provided, which sound so real Peter questions his own sanity cause no, he never said these things to Tony, ever. Especially not in that context.

He did say them to Quentin, though, during one of the very rare moments Quen agreed to try out his hands at Playstation. 

Which was _ages ago_, way before… oh. But _after_ Quentin hid the laptop. 

The new surge of anger makes him cry out and fling the tablet across the floor, not caring whether it survives the impact or not. Sharp pain shoots through his muscles in response to the sudden movement and Peter almost doubles over from the intensity of it. 

He can’t say how long he remains like that, breathing through the pain and ignoring the tears that have sprung to his eyes, but it’s long enough that JARVIS feels inclined to warn him he’s about to have company. 

Not that anything in the world could have prepared him for the arrival of a furious Tony, an equally agitated Ms. Potts, an unknown lady in a three-piece suit as well as Steve and Bucky, all of whom seem to be talking at the same time. 

They fall silent at the sight of Peter. 

Tony is the first to move, anger bleeding into something else Peter can’t quite name, but his voice still heavy with it. 

“First of all, I’m sorry you found out like this, but Legal was holding me hostage –”

“Mr. Stark,” the lady interjects and promptly is talked over. 

“– and didn’t wanna tell you anything in the first place, cause why would we hear both sides of a story when we could just believe a fucking _online magazine_ over our own boss and panic about allegations that have no basis in reality whatsoever –”

“He has recordings, Tony,” Ms. Potts snaps, which in turn has Tony shout about the unlimited scope of audio editing and the lady dive into some legal chatter that goes way over Peter’s head. 

“Shut up!” Steve roars all of a sudden, making Peter jump about a mile which draws Steve to his side in a heartbeat, raising his hands without giving any indication he wants to reach out. 

“I’m so sorry you have to go through this,” he says, this time in a much softer tone. “I agree we’ll have to act fast, but you deserve to be part of this discussion. Wouldn’t you say, Ms. Beresikowa?” he adds with a pointed look at the suit lady, who couldn’t be more opposed. 

“I would advise my client against conniving with Mr. Parker –”

“Conniving?!” 

“Yes, Mr. Stark. Conniving. That’s exactly what it looks like in the eyes of the law.”

“He’s the victim in all this!”

“Not according to the evidence presented thus far.”

“You call what that bastard did evidence? Damn, no wonder our justice system’s so fucked!” Tony shouts, throwing up his hands. 

Ms. Beresikowa, however, stands her ground. Part of Peter admires her for it, since she’s clearly doing her best to judge this situation as objectively as possible, yet another, bigger part of him can’t help but feel incredibly overwhelmed. 

Bucky isn’t faring much better, by the looks of him. His eyes keep flicking back to the elevator doors and checking windows, flight instinct obviously on high alert. 

Eventually, Ms. Potts cuts in with a “No,” that carries the full weight of her authority, accompanied by a glare that manages to silence even Tony. 

“The Board agrees with Ms. Beresikowa’s recommendations, as do I, and frankly, Tony, you’re in no way capable of remaining impartial on this subject. Also, you’re facing fraud allegations – you don’t get a say in this.” She takes a deep breath, never taking her eyes off Tony. “As per our bylaws, I’m suspending you, effective immediately.”

“Pep, no, you can’t –”

“I have to,” she says, “now be quiet so we can finally untangle this mess.”

“There is no mess,” Steve interrupts, expression darkening. “Quentin Beck has been abusing his partner for months, if not years, and this is just his latest attempt to get away with it. What we have to do is stick to the truth and face this head-on.”

“This isn’t a failed product launch, Rogers,” Beresikowa says. “This has severe legal implications with the potential to ruin the company beyond repair.”

“And what about Peter?”

“I’d have thought a man with your credentials would know better than to let his personal feelings get in the way of professional conduct.”

“Oh, you ain’t seen personal yet,” Steve all but growls, and Bucky actually has to surge forward and place a hand on his arm to keep him from advancing on the woman. 

It’s more than Peter can take. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, immediately drawing everyone’s attention. “I – I don’t wanna cause trouble, I swear, just…” Deep breath. “What now?”

“Now you’re gonna go back to bed and rest,” Tony says before anyone else has the chance to reply, “and let us hash this out. We’ll figure it out, I promise you, kid.”

“You can’t pay for his housing, Tony!” Pepper snaps. “Weren’t you listening to the allegations? Mr. Parker, I realize you’re hurt and I assure you, we will do our due diligence when investigating this matter, but we also cannot be seen favoring you. I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

“And where the fuck’s he supposed to stay? With the fucker that did this to him?”

“There are hotels in Manhattan, Tony.”

“Which he can’t pay for, which you’d _know_, Pep,” Tony says, practically shaking with rage and frustration, “if you’d listened to a word I said.”

Both Ms. Potts and Ms. Beresikowa make to argue, so Peter stops them with a quick, “It’s fine. I’ll leave. I don’t wanna… I wanna help.”

The lawyer leaps at the opening. “Good. You’ve already been officially suspended. We’ll have security escort you to your desk so you can gather your belongings, then drive you to a destination of your choosing. Every reporter in the State is camped out around the Tower and I refuse to give them anything to write about.” 

Peter nods numbly, unable to meet Tony’s eyes, mind racing as it tries to wrap itself around what’s happening. Tony fights Pepper tooth and nail on her decision with ample assistance from Steve, but eventually they both have to concede. 

“This ain’t over,” Tony vows darkly, and stalks over to the elevator, only pausing long enough to give Peter a gentle squeeze as well as a reassuring look before leaving, presumably to vent his anger elsewhere. 

Peter has to follow Ms. Potts and Beresikowa down several floors, where security will meet up with them and take him to his desk. Bucky stays behind with an unnecessary apology in his eyes, but Steve refuses to return to his office. He’s like a protective shadow, glaring at everyone who so much as lifts a curious eyebrow in their direction as they pass. 

Regardless of how unsettling it is to see Steve Rogers this out of sorts, however, it doesn’t prevent the whispers from following them down the corridors of Engineering. 

Peter doesn’t have much he wants to take with him; the photo of Ben and May is the only thing he came back for, really. He still checks all drawers, then berates himself for dawdling. Looking for some deus ex machina won’t prevent the inevitable. 

He’s clutching the photo to his chest when he realizes – May won’t be home till five. 

“Where may I take you, sir?” the security guard asks in that precise moment. 

Peter blinks. He can’t even call her since his phone is still at Quentin’s flat. 

Not that he wants to face her disappointment, for that matter. 

Yet if not with her, where could he possibly stay? Apart from Tony, who in the city is he close enough to for him to just turn up on their doorstep, uninvited?

_No one,_ Quentin’s voice sneers in his head. _You have no one._

“Peter?”

He looks up at Steve’s troubled face. A second later, the expression morphs into determination. 

“Brooklyn,” he tells the guard, then rattles off an address. When he turns back and notes Peter’s confusion, he smiles. “My place. I’m never home nowadays, you know. Cause of Bucky. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.”

“I don’t wanna –”

“It’s just a studio,” Steve continues, ignoring his objections, “and the pipes creak and it’s a bit far from the train, but it gets awesome sunlight and the street’s pretty quiet. I’m gonna do a grocery run after work, alright? Spare toothbrush and stuff should be there, but I’ll check anyway.”

Then he ushers Peter into the backseat of the car like it’s the most self-evident thing in the world. 

And maybe it is. Peter’s too drained to feel anything beyond relief and gratitude for now, though. He leans back against the soft leather, closes his eyes… and simply breathes. 

*

It’s not until after he’s been shown around and given blankets and orange juice and leave to raid the bookshelves and the graphic novel collection, after Steve said goodbye and the door clicked shut behind him, that he remembers how he first met Steve. 

The Red Room. 

A charity for survivors of domestic violence. 

Peter blinks at the empty flat. Suddenly, a lot of Steve’s action today make more sense, especially his vehement defense of Peter in the penthouse. He’s been involved with the charity for ages, if Peter remembers correctly… but in what capacity, his mind fails to supply. 

When Steve returns an indeterminable amount of time later, it’s with a pile of groceries, a duffle bag stuffed with clothes plus a heavy-looking SI tote bag.

“Tony and I figured you’d need a phone sooner rather than later,” Steve says. “The laptop was all his idea, though. I’d’ve offered you some of my clothes, but Bucky said his should fit you better. Tony wanted to set you up with a credit card till I talked him out of it. One step at a time, right?”

“Thanks,” Peter manages around the lump in his throat. 

Steve smiles, then goes about putting the food away. It’s a strange mix of all-natural healthy stuff and processed sugar. 

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” Steve says per way of explanation. “You hungry? I’m a halfway decent cook. Or so Bucky tells me.”

“I… it’s fine. I don’t wanna keep you from… You’ve done so much already.”

“And I’ll gladly do more. Or leave you in peace, if that’s what you need right now,” Steve adds with a soft smile that’s nothing but genuine. “Can’t tell you much on the news front, though. The Board decided to hire outside help for the internal fraud investigation, but the contractor hasn’t been confirmed yet. They’re gonna want to reach out soon – is it okay if I give them your new number? The more you cooperate, the better your chances.”

Peter nods, feeling numb.

“I’m also supposed to tell you from Tony to call or text when you get the phone; no pressure, just so he knows you’re still – ya know. But I’m happy to do it for you, Peter. Same with your aunt, if you’d rather not… You look pretty beat, is all.”

“No, I…” Peter swallows. “I’ll do it.”

“Alright.”

“You should – I mean, Bucky’s waiting for you, so…”

“Bucky gets that you need company right now.”

“Yeah, but he’s your…” Peter gives an eloquent shrug. 

“And you’re my friend. Come on, I’ma make some tea.”

The last time Peter had tea (that wasn’t flung at him), it was some supposedly anti-oxidizing concoction that Quentin was trying out and tasted exactly as it sounded, so he hopes that Steve has a better palate. 

Something about his aversion must have shown on his face, however, cause Steve quickly pivots and makes them hot chocolate instead. 

Peter’s first impulse is to decline. He gets as far as opening his mouth and saying Steve’s name before he realizes there’s no need to abide by Quentin’s rules anymore. 

Knowing and actually acting on it are two different things entirely, though, as it turns out. Every sip feels like he’s doing something wrong. He manages half the mug, then admits defeat. He sets it down on the coffee table in front of him with finality. 

Steve regards him for a moment, brow furrowed in question, then it smoothes over as understanding fills his eyes. 

Peter looks away. 

Seconds tick by in silence. 

“It’s…” Steve takes a breath. “You don’t have to be ashamed, Peter. You’ve been through a hell of a lot. Any way you feel is okay. I won’t judge you, and neither will Tony, or Bucky, or anyone else with some common sense.”

He’s talking from memory, Peter’s sure of it. He’s been wondering about Steve’s past ever since he remembered and has been trying his best to remaining tactful and not pry, but maybe… maybe Steve wouldn’t mind talking about… whatever there is to talk about. 

“Did you, um,” Peter stops, biting his lip. 

All Steve does in response is wait for him to go on. 

“Did you learn that at the… Red Room?” he asks, then simply can’t meet Steve’s gaze anymore. 

He hears Steve sigh, followed by the sound of a mug connecting with wood.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says in a rush, “I shouldn’t – I mean –” 

But Steve is smiling. A bit sad, but the corners of his lips are definitely curling upwards. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says again, softer this time. 

“It’s alright. I’m glad you… It’s a bit awkward, bringing it up. On my own, that is.” 

“What about when you’re, you know. At events?”

Steve shrugs, reaching for his mug again. “Clint’s a good friend. Usually that’s enough for people. He’s quite outspoken. I can be, too, just… I don’t wanna be in the spotlight. I just wanna help.”

Peter nods, unable to think of anything to say. Or how he can possibly ask. 

Steve, however, seems to be reading him like a book, and readjusts his position on the sofa to make himself more comfortable. 

“I met Sharon as a freshman. She was a year ahead of me, and really kind, and I… My mum had just died. I wasn’t in a good place. She was a real help, at first. I didn’t notice when things… when it escalated. There were moments I thought something wasn’t right, but she had this way about her, you know?”

Peter does. He knows exactly what Steve is getting at. 

“I decided to leave her four times. And she always managed to reel me back in. But that’s how manipulation works, Peter. Took me a while to stop beating myself up about it, and you’re gonna need time to process, too. There’s no schedule. Just… one step at a time.”

“How did…”

“How’d I get away?” Steve smiles at the memory. “There was this art supply store near campus where I’d stop by at least once a day. Just to look around, mostly, until Sharon started giving me gift cards. As apologies, you know. The clerk got suspicious, started asking questions. When I didn’t show up for a couple o’ days in a row, he came looking. Called the police when he heard shouts from inside my place that night.”

Peter sucks in a startled breath. The idea of anyone managing to hurt Steve, with his broad shoulders and his height, let alone a woman… 

“I was damn lucky,” Steve continues after a sigh. “The officers who took the call had special training. They didn’t assume; they asked. So I told the truth. And they believed me.”

“What happened?”

At that, Steve’s expression darkens. “She got out on bail, pending trial. I couldn’t stand to be in my flat, not even after I switched the locks. Good thing I’d made a friend who let me crash on his couch.” At Peter’s quizzical glance, Steve grins. “The clerk. That’s how I met Clint. Used to work three jobs to save up for his archery school but he still insisted he pay me for my graphic designs. Well – Sharon eventually pleaded out. Paid a fine, agreed to therapy. Moved away. Never heard from her again. Couldn’t track her down either, so who knows how many others –” Steve cuts himself off. Peter’s heart aches for him. “Well. Point is, I never would’ve made it through all that without help from my friends. And professionals. And you’re gonna make it, too. Alright?”

“Alright,” Peter echoes, and finds that he almost believes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this finds you safe and as well as circumstances permit! *sending hugs*


	15. fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlenhiver signed off on this chapter today, and I didn’t want to wait to share. Here we go, yay! Extra long chapter this time. ✨ Also, I’ve written past ch16 now and can tentatively say that this fic might have 19 chapters in total. My track record with chapter count estimates is shoddy at best, so don’t hold me to that, please…
> 
> Behind the scenes of this chapter:  
Merlenhiver: They’re still allowed to have coffee in public… *dreams*  
Jay: Right??? I felt jealous even writing about it… In NYC, of all places.  
Merlenhiver: Look what we’ve come to… *facepalm*” 
> 
> Anyway… Hope you’re all doing okay, folks. As a white, queer trans* person, let me add:  
#BLACKLIVESMATTER   
#BLACKTRANSLIVESMATTER

“No way.”

“Mr. Stark –”

“Nope. No chance.”

Tony crosses his arms for good measure and deepens his glare. Across the table, Beresikowa looks like she’s about ready to strangle him. Only took him two days. He’s growing soft. 

“I mean it,” he says, “I’ve done everything you wanted, even allowed you to share video of my testimony with the Board, and who knows how quickly that’s gonna be leaked to the press –”

“All the more reason to maintain radio silence, sir. Mr. Parker already signed –”

“Course he did! He’s the one with the least amount of power in this! You basically blackmailed him into that NDA!”

“He offered.”

“Cause Deckert and their cronies ganged up on him –”

“They acted perfectly within their rights as investigators, Mr. Stark, as they did with you, and did nothing whatsoever to warrant your blatant hostility towards them.”

‘Blatant hostility’ is pushing it a bit, in Tony’s opinion. He simply let them know what he thinks of this entire farce. Beck’s constant stream of Insta stories thanking everyone for believing him and his monologues on how #MeToo can be utilized against the ‘little man’ makes him sick to the stomach.

“Fine,” Tony snaps, pushing away from the table. “And I’m perfectly within my rights to go public with my version of the story. Also known as the truth.”

With that, he turns on his heels and storms out of the room. 

Or makes to, until Pepper suddenly appears in the doorway. 

“You won’t,” she tells him, in that ‘I’m the boss, period’ tone of hers, and talks over him when he opens his mouth to argue. “This isn’t about right or wrong, Tony. Let Deckert worry about that – _they_ are in charge of the investigation, not you.”

“Are you listening to yourself, Pep? Of course this is about right or wrong! They’re crucifying Peter for this even though he’s done nothing wrong.”

“He admitted to hiding the laptop.”

“Which Beck manipulated him into doing!”

“Tony,” she says, her nostrils flaring. “Parker isn’t innocent in this. Whatever happened, he did damage company property without alerting anyone and hid valuable data. He _confessed_,” she repeats. “Throwing a tantrum won’t help him. Keeping your mouth shut and letting the investigators handle this will.”

Something about her tone strikes a chord with Tony. He narrows his eyes at her. This isn’t Pep’s ‘My way or the highway’ face. 

“How much?”

Pepper arches an eyebrow. 

“How much will it help? If I agree to maintain complete radio silence.”

Pepper’s eyes dart to Beresikowa, who gets the message immediately and is out of the room a moment later, closing the door behind her. 

Neither Tony nor Pepper relax even a fraction. 

“How much?” 

Pepper holds his gaze. “Enough.”

*

Since Tony is neither able to leave the Tower nor be helpful in any of his departments since he’s still suspended, he bunkers down in his workshop. 

He does his best to tune out any and all coverage, steers clear of social media, but he’s curious by nature and sometimes his resolve cracks. In the aftermath of those moments, he’s infinitely grateful for his habit of collecting junk. Useful for both tinkering and sudden bursts of anger. 

At least he knows that Peter’s more successful at blocking everything out. He’s got to sit his finals this week, after all, and spends every waking moment when he’s not at therapy or having a check-up cramming for them. 

Tony likes to send him random texts with questions on his material, even offered to quiz him via video chat, but Peter declined. His aunt doesn’t think it’s a good idea. 

Tony snorts. _Now_ the woman chooses to get her head out of her ass, after everything’s all said and done. 

Okay, not everything. The investigation’s still pending, but from what JARVIS could uncover, the endless charade of evidence-gathering is about to end. It takes every ounce of Tony’s willpower not to hack into Deckert’s files and see what conclusions they’re drawing. 

A _ping_ alerts him to a new message. 

“On screen,” Tony says, which is completely superfluous cause JARVIS would’ve done that anyway, but hey, after a week of social isolation he’ll take any interaction he can get. 

_Final final ;-)_

It’s just two words and an emoji, but Tony finds himself grinning. 

_Go and wipe the floor with them_, he texts back. 

Will do! Good luck with the app, comes the reply.

_It’s not an app! _

_:D_

Tony chuckles, and sets his phone down. If the kid’s teasing him about his projects, he seems to be in high spirits. He sincerely hopes it will last.

*

Upon returning from uni, Peter promptly falls asleep. Fortunately he already set his alarm for the next morning, cause he has to leave Brooklyn at the crack of dawn to make it to Ms. Jaheem’s office in time for his session. 

Navigating public transportation on crutches isn’t fun, but at least they garner him a pity seat on the crowded train. 

It’s only his third session with the lady, one of the counselors who offer free emergency care through the Red Room, but she’s already proving to be a lifeline. Whether it’s Steve’s influence or her innate bullshit radar, or both, Jaheem believed Peter without hesitation.

“There is still too little awareness out there about the systems of abuse,” she likes to remind him whenever the onslaught of hate mail and messages gets to him. 

Not that he seeks it out – far from it. But sometimes, curiosity gets the better of him. 

“And that’s a good thing, don’t get me wrong,” Jaheem says later that morning. “This is going to stay with you for the upcoming weeks, if not months, and you will have to learn to cope with this new reality. But, as with most things, it’s the dosage that determines the effect.”

All resolutions not to dwell on it too much evaporate, however, the second Peter steps out of her office building. 

There’s a voicemail on his phone. 

_‘Hello, Mr. Parker, this is Millicent Bragnold from Deckert and Associates. We would like to discuss the results of our investigations and formalize all legal ramifications required.’_

Forty-three minutes later, he’s sitting at the end a conference table in one of the few meeting rooms that aren’t surrounded by glass, feeling his stomach plummet as Deckert himself speaks of ‘insurmountable evidence’, ‘contradictory statements’, and a well-documented history of conflict between Quentin and Tony. 

The man himself doesn’t look like much, small and soft with thinning hair and thick-rimmed glasses that keep sliding down his nose, but he’s thorough and confident and delivers his firm’s report with the air of a man who has nothing to lose.

Contrary to Peter. 

Who just lost everything. 

“As a favor to Tony,” Ms. Potts says, voice softer than Peter has ever heard it, “the Board decided not to press charges. If you agree to the conditions Mr. Deckert just laid out, we will simply cut our ties and go on with our lives.”

‘What lives?!’ Peter wants to ask, but the words remain stuck in his throat.

Agreeing means he not only loses his co-op position, they will also terminate his scholarship. The SSCC, Columbia’s office for Student Conduct and Community Standards, has already reached out to him, so even if he could afford to keep his spot as a student, the university’s regulations probably won’t let him.

They might if he got to explain his side of the story when they question him… which he won’t if he signs the NDA like Stark Industries requires. But if he doesn’t, the entire thing will proceed to court.

Peter couldn’t even afford Ms. Jaheem’s sessions if they weren’t free through the Red Room, how would he pay exorbitant legal fees? On top of the pile of medical bills that will most certainly arrive in his inbox, now that he no longer partakes in SI’s generous health benefits. 

Meanwhile, Quentin will receive a settlement. 

“Mr. Parker?” 

He looks up. 

Deckert regards him with a neutral expression. “Are these terms acceptable?”

They definitely aren’t – but Peter really has no choice in the matter. 

*

Columbia’s official notice of expulsion reaches him a mere four days later, on an otherwise sunny Tuesday. 

Tony’s anger far exceeds Peter’s, somehow.

“Spineless cowards, the lot of them!” he shouts, pacing in the narrow space between Steve’s coffee table and the television. “If they had a single ounce of dignity left, they’d’ve held an _actual_ investigation, but oh no, let’s hurry this along cause we can’t stomach any more bad press. We’ve got donations to consider. Well, guess who just lost access to my checkbook!”

Peter can’t help the fond smile that forms at his friend’s tantrum. Sure, the situation sucks and he has far from anything resembling a plan as to how to get his life back on track, but he still has Tony, who went against May’s recommendations the second Peter said he’d like some company. 

Then there’s Bucky and Steve, of course, and… well, Ned. 

Peter’s glad he’s able to ditch the crutches before Ned arrives at the airport the following weekend. It’s gonna be hard enough as it is to see his best friend for the first time since… damn, he can’t really remember. 

Once again, Peter finds himself shocked how expertly Quentin maneuvered him into isolation. It was such a gradual process, he never even noticed. Yet in hindsight, it’s blatantly obvious. 

Ned seems to agree and spends the first half hour of their seventy-minute train ride from JFK to Steve’s flat apologizing for letting himself be so distracted by his new job and girlfriend. 

“… which is totally inexcusable, man, remember our oath in third grade? I violated every single best friend rule out there, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness, really I don’t, I should’ve noticed or done more or flown out when you cancelled or –”

“Ned,” Peter tries, but Ned keeps going, so he leans back and lets Ned’s babbling wash over him. Maybe that’s how his best friend copes. 

By the time they reach Steve’s apartment, they’ve hugged three times, said ‘I love you, man’ twice and had to dodge someone’s camera phone only once.

“Dude, that’s so cool. It’s like you’re a celebrity!”

“More like a pariah,” Peter says, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone, then distracts Ned immediately with the grand tour of Peter’s temporary shelter. 

One day soon, he’s gonna have to move – or in the least pay rent, cause Peter doubts this place comes cheap, regardless of how far it is from the subway. Steve keeps telling him not to worry about it, with Bucky nodding along whenever he’s nearby, but part of Peter can’t help feeling just as trapped here as he did with Quentin the past few weeks. 

“I know it’s not the same,” Peter hurries to say when the truth slips out late that evening after Ned wiped the floor with him in their nostalgic WoW revival. He’s horribly out of practice. “And I know the way I feel is gonna change, but right now it’s just…” He shrugs.

“Yeah.” Ned sets the controller down on the coffee table with a sigh. 

The silence between them used to be so easy, relaxed and cordial and filled with a life’s worth of memories. Now, it’s… awkward. Peter regards Ned out of the corner of his eye. He’s a bit taller, less child-faced, and the stubble suits him, but at the same time he’s so… different. Miles away from the boy who chickened out of applying to college. 

Peter feels the corners of his mouth curl despite the hollowness in his chest. 

Ned slants him a questioning look. 

“Just… I’m happy for you, man.”

Ned smiles. “And you’re gonna be happy, too, Peter. Real soon. Any community college would be stupid not to sweep you up, and there’ll be loads of jobs you can do, especially with your experience. You worked for Stark Industries, dude! Who cares about some stupid allegations when you’re brilliant?”

Peter’s guess: everyone. Quentin swore he’d never work in engineering again, and Peter doubts someone as persistent as him would suddenly decide to be lenient. 

“But hey,” Ned continues, “first you gotta decide where you’re gonna apply. I checked and the deadlines aren’t for weeks, but the ones for scholarships are, so we better get started first thing tomorrow, right?”

Which is not Peter’s idea of quality time with his best friend, granted, but it’s necessary. Peter won’t stand a chance in today’s job market without a formal degree, so his first priority is to finish his education. Since he literally has zero money, however, he’ll only be able to attend a college if it admits him on a full ride. Peter can’t say which is less likely – getting a scholarship or being allowed back into any academic institution in the first place. 

“I still say you’re better off going freelance, kid,” is Tony’s take on the whole situation, which he explains at length when he drops by Saturday night with take-out and the newest StarkPhone prototype (“Cause damned if I don’t let you see the fruits of your labor!”). 

“Hell, you could even take up a pseudonym. Once people see you know your shit, you’ll be set. Or hey, even better,” Tony adds with an even wider grin, but is cut off by Bucky before he can continue. 

“You’re not setting him up with a new identity.”

“For science!”

“No.”

“But buddy –”

Meanwhile, Ned looks like he’s attained nirvana. His response to Peter giving him the heads-up that Tony’s dropping by was an endless loop of “Oh, yeah, sure, no biggie, just Tony Stark, casually dropping by, nothing special about it,” and the man’s actual presence doesn’t seem to have diminished any of Ned’s incredulity. 

“Well, you got your opinion, cyborg, and I got mine,” Tony huffs. “Now let’s skip to the part where Peter’s BFF spills all his embarrassing childhood memories.”

It takes several seconds for Ned to realize that _Tony Stark_ is speaking to him, and asking an indirect question on top of that. 

“Um, yes, sir, of course, uh…”

“Leave the punk alone, Stark,” Bucky cuts in. “At least fucking wait till after dinner.”

“Which we’d have already begun if your better half weren’t late,” Tony snarks back, and they’re off again. 

Ned’s wide-eyed expression makes Peter whisper, “They’re always like that,” but unfortunately Tony’s hearing is way better than he hoped for. 

“Like what, kid? Like a pair of confirmed geniuses balancing the sheer force of their intellect with the occasional bout of petty camaraderie? Or the – oh, you brought pie!”

Peter chuckles, way too used to Tony’s non-sequiturs to still get whiplash from them, even if he hadn’t seen Steve enter the flat over Ned and Bucky’s shoulders.

Tony shoots out of his spot on the second chair and is at Steve’s side a moment later. 

“Tell me it’s cherry, Rogers, I might actually die if you brought us –”

“It’s cake,” Steve snaps, harsh enough that even Tony stops short. 

Now Bucky’s off the sofa, though rather than invade Steve’s personal space, he remains a few steps away. “Stevie?” 

Peter watches Steve take a deep breath, then force some of the tension to bleed from his shoulders. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Long day. Oh, you gotta be Ned. Nice to meet you.”

Introductions are made, food distributed, and by some unspoken agreement no one asks Steve for details until they’re all grouped around the dinner table with the slices of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting that Tony doled out.

“So,” he ventures after licking topping off his fingers, “cause we’re all dying to know: What crawled up your pert little ass today?”

Peter looks up from his own (untouched) slice just in time to see Ned blush. 

“Stop hitting on my boyfriend, Stark.” 

“Just pointing out the facts.”

“Shuri,” Steve says, probably to shut them up. “She won’t go on ‘Good Morning, America’.”

“Can’t say I blame her,” Tony shrugs, and takes another bite. 

Peter’s eyes drop to his slice. It’s the smallest of all, he notices, and once more Peter is touched by Tony’s silent support. While he’s been able to relax around food more and more, it’s still far from easy. It probably won’t be for quite a while, according to Ms. Jaheem. 

“She suddenly camera shy, or something?” Bucky asks, which prompts an annoyed harrumph from Steve followed by, “Apparently.”

“So what, Rogers, it’s not like you don’t have an army of engineers at your disposal to – oh.”

“What?” Ned blurts when all that follows is a sequence of meaningful glances that causes Peter to sink deeper into his seat. 

“They want Beck,” Steve explains. “Asked for him specifically. If I send the department head, I can argue I’m giving them an even better deal, but Shuri refused. Doesn’t want the spotlight, she said.”

“Since when?” Tony says. “Seriously, first time I met her she did everything she could to steal _my_ show! Okay, back then she was still working for her brother and I was still a dick, but –”

“She wouldn’t explain beyond that. Didn’t budge no matter how I made my case. I’m sorry, Peter.”

“Oh, it’s, uh, it’s fine. Not your fault.”

“How about I talk to her?” Tony suggests, which earns a resounding “No!” from both Bucky and Steve, which in turn sends Ned into a fit of laughter and warms Peter’s chest enough that he finally braves a piece of cake. 

*

Unfortunately, Ned can’t stay forever, and leaves for his flight back to the West Coast on Monday evening… but not before he sets Peter up with a PayPal account. 

Which comes with a balance of $275,27. 

“Dude –”

“No, no, hear me out, Peter. I ran the numbers, and that’s how much I owe you – remember all the times you covered the snacks from the vending machine between classes? Plus, I still owe you 50 bucks for that Lego Death Star T-shirt from senior year. So this is yours, I swear.”

Peter squashes all the protests that are rising in his throat, cause Ned’s right, he _knows_ he’s right, but he still can’t shake how much it feels like charity. 

“And why is that so bad?” Ms. Jaheem asks during their next session. “After all, what I’m doing could be considered charity as well.”

“It’s…” 

_… weak_, a voice finishes inside his head. It sounds like Quentin. 

What Peter says, is “I wanna get back on my feet.”

“Alright. What kind of job do you have in mind?”

Peter hesitates. “Maybe at a hardware store? Once I’ve, uh, fully healed?”

Physically, at least. Like Ms. Jaheems says, it’s going to take a lot longer to work through the psychological toll of his time with Quentin. 

Also, job hunting is a great distraction from waiting for replies about scholarships and college admissions. 

Not for long, though, as it turns out. 

The first hardware store Peter calls about openings starts out really interested, and then never calls back after Peter submitted his CV. He shows up in person at another one two blocks over, and the lady in charge of recruiting obviously recognizes him. She contradicts the ‘Help Wanted’ sign he spotted in the window before he has a chance to make his case. 

Peter expands his search, explores shop fronts between physical therapy and sessions with Ms. Jaheem, asks his aunt to put in a good word with her boss even though Peter can’t imagine working an office job (they decline anyway), and by mid-June he still comes up empty-handed.

“You ready to admit I was right yet?” Tony asks the next time he shows up with a bag of steaming cartons. “Freelance is the way to go! Hey, what are your feelings about garlic naan?”

Tony does that, nowadays. He’s made a veritable sport out of bringing by different food and letting Peter work through his, uh, issues under the guise of ‘broadening his palate’. He never pushes too far and backs off the second Peter signals he’s hit his limit – like with the pile of spring rolls on top of the peanut coconut curry last week. 

On other occasions, he comes by with comfort food. 

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, no trace of pity in his eyes as they’re chewing on cinnamon rolls and waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. “I really thought they wouldn’t care.”

Peter shrugs. 

He sorta expected it. Well, after the first three scholarships declined his application. Now he has the full set. Meaning that he’ll have to pay for everything himself if he wants to attend classes in the fall. 

“Kid… you know you only need to ask, right?”

Peter nods. Smiles. 

Tony obviously doesn’t understand why he’s so hung up on refusing his help, why he can’t just let his billionaire friend pay thousands of dollars in tuition fees for him, why the thought makes every cell in Peter’s body cringe individually. 

But he respects it. Which warms Peter’s heart more than the actual offer ever could. 

*

Recovery reminds Peter of why he prefers maths and science over the humanities. 

It just makes so much more sense: the laws of thermodynamics never waver; the square root of pi has a precise value, even though you can’t express it in a finite number. 

When Peter started therapy, he expected his progress to approximate an exponential function. He’d improve quicker and quicker, the lessons he learned compounding to leave him healed and whole and back to normal within a set period of time. 

Reality doesn’t match, however. 

Some days, he’s on top of the world, fully comfortable in seeing himself as a survivor and positive that he’ll find a way to get back on his feet and prove to Quentin that, yes, he’s capable and clever and deserving of success. 

Other days, Peter finds himself sticking to the ‘good’ foods since eating anything else seems too daunting a task. Other days, he looks in the mirror and hates himself for the softening of his silhouette. Other days, he can’t call anyone due to a conditioned response that won’t leave him be. 

“Yeah, emotions suck,” Tony agrees when Peter finally gathers the courage to ask if that’s normal. “Hell, I still have danger days, too. Probably will for the rest of my life. And that’s fine. We all have our own pace, y’know? No sense rushing that. Besides, the days you gotta live up to Beck’s ludicrous expectations are in the past.”

“Your friend makes a good point,” Ms. Jaheem says during their next session. “Maybe it’s time you reconsider joining the Red Room Renegades? At least for a trial meeting.”

The denial is on the tip of Peter’s tongue, but then he remembers Tony’s fond exasperation talking about group therapy during rehab, as well as Steve crediting much of his stabilizing to the self-help group he got off the ground with Clint. 

So he goes. 

He fully expects them to laugh him out of the room – his face is out of the press by now, but news of Quentin’s settlement are still fresh in everyone’s mind – yet no one does. Sure, there are a few skeptical glances here and there, but when he stammers his way through his (feverishly rehearsed) introduction, the atmosphere in the room shifts. 

It’s after the third weekly meeting he attends that Shonda stops him on his way out the door.

She’s a lawyer, he knows, a single mother of three kids who managed to get her abusive husband of twelve years arrested and convicted last year. She’s the kind of person Peter wouldn’t expect to talk about panic attacks and nightmares, about shaving her afro and returning to wigs for weeks in an attempt to cope with heightened stress at her job. 

“You were an engineering student, right?” she says, then continues after Peter’s nod. “You any good at calculus?” 

That’s how Peter gets a job tutoring Shonda’s oldest daughter for the summer. 

“See,” Tony cheers later that evening. “Freelance! Not quite what I had in mind, but hey, nothing wrong with thinking outside the box.”

Madison, his pupil, has her eyes set on becoming a pilot, but needs to catch up on pre-cal and algebra before starting her senior year to ensure her grades are up to par. 

For the first time in weeks, Peter feels useful again. 

And no, giving Tony feedback on the StarkPhone updates doesn’t count.

“Of course it counts! You know anyone else who could’ve spotted the design flaw as soon as you did?”

“Everyone still on the task force,” Peter says before adjusting his position on the couch so Tony can actually see his face via the video chat.

“Yeah, but that would’ve taken a day. I wanna roll this out for Christmas, kid, not Valentine’s Day. Oh, hey,” Tony adds, and just from the pause Peter can tell the next bit’s gonna be about Quentin. “Guess whose interview was cut down to a single quote on CNN? You shoulda seen his face today; glorious, I’m telling you.”

Peter grins. It might be petty, yeah, but it’s the best he can hope for at the moment. Tony keeps saying they’ll find a way to make Beck pay, yet until he’s come up with a strategy that won’t end with Tony (or Bucky, for that matter) arrested for aggravated assault, Peter will take whatever he can get. 

Like Bucky claiming the spotlight on SI’s insta stories – with ample help from Steve – when Quentin applied for the chance as well. Or Tony building up Bruce as the new expert on retroFRAME rather than the guy who invented the thing in the first place. 

“Oh, and Shuri told me she heard that the _Science Journal_ rejected Beck’s opinion piece on why integrating his own tech in trauma therapy is counterproductive. Said he’s not qualified to judge psychological applications, even if it’s his own tech. No wonder he’s been in a shitty mood, ha.”

Tony never expects him to react to any of his Quentin-related news, which is a huge relief. It has been getting easier, though, accepting the fact that the guy who made his life hell is still out there, being heralded as a genius. When Peter dwells too much on it, he can feel the anger taking over, and he has the urge to rage at the unfairness of it all… but as he has discovered, that won’t make him feel better. 

“Earth to Peter.”

He quickly looks up, yet Tony’s still smiling, so he can’t have been spaced out for too long. Besides, it’s far from the first time.

“Shuri says hi and asked for your number. Don’t get your hopes up, though, she’s still sickeningly happy with Retti.” 

“She know you call him that?”

“Not to her face, who’d you take me for, kid? Anyway, you okay if I pass it on?”

Giving his contact details to people still puts him on edge, but at the same time it makes him feel quite powerful. In control. It’s his decision who he talks to, after all. 

Neither Tony nor Bucky can formulate any reasonable theory as to what Shuri might want, so Peter is neither surprised nor disappointed when she keeps to small talk throughout their initial messages. 

The suggestion to meet for coffee comes apropos of nothing. 

At least he recognizes his impulse to text Steve or Bucky or Tony he’s going to be back late that day as traces of a habit that Quen drilled into him, and subsequently does the exact opposite. 

He even puts his phone into airplane mode and manually disables the GPS tracker before he leaves. 

It doesn’t relax him as much as it usually does, though. 

Shuri is already waiting for him when he reaches the trendy coffee shop in Midtown, not far from Stark Tower. She’s in a bright yellow dress, with matching beads integrated into her braided bun.

“Long time, no see, Parker,” she says, her smile nothing if not genuine. “How’ve you been? Missing the office circus yet?”

“Uh…” He slides into the other leg of the corner booth Shuri secured for them. “Fine?”

“Would you like to try that once more with feeling?”

Peter ducks his head and blushes, but Shuri’s chuckle makes him look up again. 

“I’m really asking, Peter. But why don’t I start?” she says, a twinkle in her eye, and delves into a very detailed rundown of her day that somehow ends up filling Peter in on all the gossip he missed since he lost his position. 

He’s not sure where this is supposed to go. His former boss never struck him as someone who enjoys small talk, but he loosens up eventually, aided by a very delicious strawberry-banana-smoothie that Shuri talked him into trying. 

Her phone chimes as Peter’s in the middle of complaining about Madison’s obsession with color-coding all her notes, which proves a lot more distracting than helpful in his opinion, and he stops abruptly when Shuri smirks at him after checking her screen.

“Time to go, Parker,” she says, dropping a couple of bills on the table and motioning at him to follow. 

She never waited for his reaction back when he was her subordinate, and part of Peter is glad she’s not treating him any differently now. 

Still, he’s a bit wary. 

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see. I think you’ll love it, but you can leave whenever you want, okay?”

Shuri leads him half a block down the street and into the lobby of a hotel. It’s the kind of place that’s sleek and modern, yet still comfortable. Both of the receptionists nod hello at Shuri and Peter, who tries to calm his racing pulse. Logically, he knows there’s no reason to be afraid. There are multiple explanations why Shuri would guide him to… a conference room in a high-end hotel. Too bad he can’t think of a single one. 

The door to the room is open. 

Peter stops dead when he spots the figure already inside. 

“Brother,” Shuri calls, causing the man to pocket his phone. 

He’s taller than Peter imagined, with broader shoulders and a more casual cut to his suit compared to when he’s on TV, but there is no mistaking him. 

That’s T’Challa. The CEO of Wakanda Inc. 

And apparently Shuri’s brother. 

They engage in some sort of handshake sequence that Peter vaguely recognizes from documentaries about Wakanda (the country, not the company), then Shuri grins back at Peter, gesturing him inside before something on the table distracts her.

“Ohhh, are those Makroudh?”

“Yes,” T’Challa says. “But I ate all the fig ones already.”

Shuri tuts, overly dramatic. “Be glad you’re an only child, Parker.”

That turns T’Challa’s attention onto Peter, who has to swallow around the lump in his throat before he’s able to introduce himself. He barely remembers that you don’t shake hands with strangers in Wakanda, but T’Challa doesn’t seem to mind his fumbling. He’s probably used to it. 

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Peter says. “Your work on claytronics is – I mean, the parts that I understand, at least – and I read your paper on nanoscale semiconductor materials, it was –”

“His name’s Peter,” Shuri interrupts. 

“Oh, yeah, that’s me. Peter, Peter Parker,” he offers, unable to fight the blush rising in his cheeks. 

“Why don’t you have a seat, Peter, Peter Parker?” T’Challa suggests with the hint of a smile, and Peter wants the ground to open and swallow him whole. 

He takes the chair that T’Challa indicated and turns it so he’s parallel to the table since both Shuri and her brother seem intent on ignoring the layout of the room. The fact that Shuri has pushed her chair to the side, facing both of them rather than siding with T’Challa, only underscores the laid-back atmosphere Peter registers. 

“My sister has told me a lot about you, Mr. Parker,” T’Challa begins. His voice is low and smooth, just like on the interviews Peter saw. “And I must agree, you show great promise. Unfortunately, you lost your place at Columbia, or so my sister said. Is that correct?”

“Um… Yeah,” Peter says, and hopes he won’t be asked to go into detail. 

“Do you plan to continue your studies elsewhere in the fall?”

Peter swallows. “I… I applied for, um, several scholarships, but…”

“But the Americans were too hung up on gossip,” Shuri says hotly, “and since their educational system is broken, he won’t be finishing his degree. I told you, why do you still need to quiz him?”

“Because that is what you do at a job interview, sis,” T’Challa replies in a pointed tone that takes Peter a full three seconds to process. 

“Uh, job interview?”

Now Shuri is openly smirking. “Surprise!”

“I apologize for luring you here under false pretenses, Mr. Parker,” T’Challa says. “But seeing as the extent of my company’s plans have yet to reach the press, I preferred to keep it that way.”

“You – you mean… You’re expanding?”

“Yes, Mr. Parker. My sister assures me you are a gifted engineer who benefits from close mentoring more than any form of formal education, which is the foundation my family’s company is built upon. When I informed her of my plans, she suggested you immediately.”

“Which was months ago,” Shuri adds, “when I never thought we’d get to snatch you up, but then when they kicked you out…”

“But – I mean.” Peter stops, eyes darting between the two siblings. “I’m accused of corporate espionage.”

“Pah,” Shuri snorts. “You? A spy? Really, Parker. A puppy would be sneakier.”

Peter stares at her. There is no trace of doubt in her expression. She… she believes him. And by extension, so does her brother, it seems. 

He pinches his thigh as covertly as he can. 

No, definitely hurts. 

“W-what exactly are you saying?” he manages, dumbstruck. 

“We, Mr. Parker,” T’Challa says, “are offering you a job.”

*

Peter is still speechless when Shuri shows him to the lobby and out of the hotel an hour later. 

There won’t be any official paperwork for another few weeks or so, cause T’Challa was actually in town to check out properties that would house their interim offices. They shook on it, though, and T’Challa doesn’t strike Peter as the kind of man to go back on his word. 

Not that he has the best track record when it comes to judging character… but anyway. 

Shuri explained that she’ll reach out as soon as her contract with Stark Industries expires, which won’t be until the end of July, but she expects HR to talk to her about an extension soon. 

“Once they know I’m leaving, it’s safe to talk details,” she promised with a wink. 

So nothing is certain at the moment, and Peter still doesn’t discount the possibility that he’s having a mental breakdown-induced hallucination… cause otherwise, this would mean, what? That he impressed Shuri enough to convince her brother to hire him despite his record? 

Right. Cause that’s likely. 

Only then Tony calls him late one Thursday night to bemoan the fact that Shuri’s gonna leave him and he can’t even fault her for it cause he’d quit, too if he was exposed to Beck in such high dosages, “but does she know how hard it’s gonna be to train a replacement?”

“Life is unfair,” Peter deadpans, which at least startles a laugh out of Tony. 

“You can say that again, buddy. What’s that I hear about a position at Shuri’s soon-to-be new digs?”

“Uh…”

“Yeah, yeah, she told me, it’s fine; her brother and I go way back, ’s not like there’s any bad blood between us –”

Peter must have made a sound that conveyed his disbelief, cause Tony immediately plows on. 

“Hey, I’m serious here! Sure, he’s competition, but at least he’s making me work for getting to be market leader. Unlike that clown Hammer who wouldn’t know innovation if it whacked him over the head with conductive exfoliated clay-based nanocomposites. And now he’s got you on his side. Damn, I better buckle down, kid.”

Peter’s first impulse is to chuckle – yet Tony’s actually serious. 

“Um… Maybe they’re just, you know. Looking for cheap labor?”

Tony pauses on the other end of the line, then sighs. “Kid, you don’t skimp on highly-skilled workers. Not even Wakanda – _especially_ not them. I get that you’re not your own biggest fan right now, but… you’re worth the risk they’re taking. You’re incredibly talented, and you got the drive. Sure, your record ain’t as clean as would be ideal, but believe me: years from now, you’ll be out there changing the world, and no one’s gonna remember they ever doubted you.”

Oh. 

Peter takes a shaky breath as a wave of emotion sweeps through him.

“So stop talking yourself down and celebrate this as the fucking victory that it is, alright?”

“O-okay.”

“Good. Now go off and rejoice, kid, I got a department head to replace.”

Cause Steve’s actually worth every penny the company pays him, Tony’s got a fully sketched-out reaction strategy once the news of Wakanda Inc.’s expansion breaks across the globe. 

Tony goes the extra mile and welcomes T’Challa via live video from his workshop with a special appearance of DUM-E, which goes over incredibly well with their target demographic. 

It also prompts a DM from Wakanda’s CEO himself. 

_Does the little one still make you smoothies?_

Tony replies with a photo of DUM-E doing exactly that, which earns a thumbs-up reaction. Just like that, Tony knows that things with T’Challa are gonna be fine. (Not that he expected any differently; but hey, you never know with brilliant geniuses.)

Peter, on the other hand, is growing more nervous by the day. 

“If the little shit calls me one more fucking time,” Bucky grumbles, but doesn’t continue. 

“He’s just excited,” Steve says. “Anyone would be. C’mon, Buck. You promised to be supportive.”

“Oh, that _is_ him being supportive,” Tony points out, closing the dishwasher with a satisfying _clonk_. “He’s still answering. Shoulda seen him when Peter tried quizzing him on neural interfaces for the task force; bribed JARVIS to keep him outta his path.”

From the sofa, Bucky flips him the bird. “How come you’re so fine with this, Stark?”

“What else should I be?”

“Pissed? Scared? Jealous?”

“Unless T’Challa plans on making Peter his new BFF, I got no reason to be jealous.” 

“Wakanda Inc. and Stark Industries are actually quite complementary in their product range,” Steve says. “There’s no reason to be scared.”

Bucky looks like he doesn’t believe a single word, but at least he drops it. 

And no, Tony isn’t pissed either. He’s actually rather happy that Wakanda’s interim offices are going to be in Crown Heights before the remodeling in Red Hook is done, meaning Peter’s perfectly situated in Steve’s Brooklyn apartment. By that rate, Rogers won’t ever leave the tower, and Barnes’ new-found social intelligence will persist. 

Too bad the guy remains a contrary bastard. 

“But Barnes!” Tony says, following him to the next worktable. “You’re perfect! Everyone’s already scared of you and you literally live at the company.”

“I ain’t leadership material.”

“Sure you are! You mentored Peter, and look at him now.”

“One kid’s not an entire freakin’ department.”

“And you're not the same anti-social butterfly who started here years ago. Hate to break it to you, buddy, but after Shuri, you’re the guy everyone looks up to.”

“Same with Nyong.”

“Who? Oh, Electro.”

“Evan,” Barnes corrects, crossing his arms and dialing up his glare to eleven. “He’s been here just as long as I have. Bet his psych evals don’t read like a Stephen King novel.”

“But –”

“Cut it.”

Tony ropes Rogers into helping, but at the end of the day, Bucky won’t be swayed. At least he agrees to keep an eye on things and assist in case Nyong needs a first officer. 

To say that Beck looks disappointed he didn’t get the promotion to Head of Engineering would be an understatement. 

“But, uh,” Peter says. “He knew you’re in charge of top-level hiring decision?”

“Probably thought being Pepper’s fave would outweigh my objections. Good thing she’s too busy with the mess in the Berlin office.”

The kitchen alarm interrupts before they can circle through the worn-out ‘What the hell does she see in him?’ dance that Tony still doesn’t have a satisfying answer to. Then the casserole they tried – cause Peter found he truly enjoys cooking when he’s not forced into it, but cooking for one is too much of a hassle so Tony volunteered to be his guinea pig and ends up spending the kid’s free days in Brooklyn chopping ingredients or entertaining Peter with Evan’s adventures in executive functions and… where was he?

Casserole, right. 

Which ends up being way hotter than either of them can stand, so they drown their portions in sour cream and Tony feels like he could burst from how proud he is that Peter doesn’t even hesitate. 

It’s only been three weeks at his new position, but the difference is startling. 

Sure, the kid’s meticulous about money now that he has a salary again and an account in his name, and yeah, most evenings Peter is too exhausted to text or talk much… but there’s a spark in his eyes that has been missing for way too long. 

Shuri seems to be as demanding as she was at SI, yet Peter has gone back into over-eager student mode and on good days, he just about talks Tony’s ears off about everything he’s learning. Always careful not to divulge company secrets, of course, not that Tony would do anything with them. He’s still got some integrity, thank you very much. 

He also knows that not everyone is gonna be as chill about this as he. 

The relative peace lasts until the first week of September when T’Challa is scheduled to speak at the same symposium that Tony’s participating in. Their respective panels are on two different days (and two entirely different topics), meaning Tony can’t simply ‘happen’ to bump into the guy and give the media something to talk about.

Cause obviously Peter’s in the audience, and of course he doesn’t heed Tony’s advice to steer clear of Shuri and her brother during the event. 

“There’s no press,” the kid said, in that frustratingly naive way of his, “I’ll be fine.”

Yeah, right. 

To his credit, Tony squashes the impulse to send him a quick ‘told you so’ when JARVIS alerts him to the _++BREAKING++_ notification that dominates the headlines on Monday morning. 

The photo was clearly taken without either Peter, Shuri or T’Challa’s knowledge, showing them standing with a handful of other employees during a break. Peter’s posture is relaxed, his expression content, and Tony feels his lips curl into a smile before he forces himself to actually read the accompanying article. 

_… confirmed Peter Parker currently works at Wakanda Inc… Spokesperson declined comment on whether the 22-year-old faces special requirements in his workday, referring to the settlement agreement between him and former employer, Stark Industries … no information on the exact position … _

He skims the comments and reactions already online but regrets it within minutes. Rather than keep going, as he might have even a year ago, he forces himself to step back, take a few deep breaths, and messages Peter instead. 

_Just saw the news. Let me know if you need anything._

Peter’s reply comes a minute later (which Tony knows cause his feed displays the send time, not because he counted the seconds, okay). 

_Thanks. Off to meet with PR now… wish me luck???_

Tony sends a gif showing a hand-drawn Yoda holding a four-leaved clover and tries to calm the fuck down. The last thing Peter needs right now is an overprotective best friend. Especially if said overprotective best friend failed to protect him last time shit hit the fan. 

So no, he’s not gonna message T’Challa in an attempt to help… 

Even if it takes a colossal effort. 

Wakanda Inc. holds a press conference later that afternoon and any hope Tony had of getting some work done are shot to bits when he sees both Peter and T’Challa waiting on the sidelines while the tall, tough-looking spokesperson calls the room to order. 

T’Challa’s bearing is as regal as Tony remembers; he never missed a chance to mock the guy for it, sure, but at the same time his aura is pretty damn inspiring. Age is a good look on him, too. 

“In Wakanda, we do not have a habit of denying second chances,” T’Challa says. “Perhaps that is why I was surprised by your reaction here.”

Tony can’t help but smirk. It turns into a grin when Peter steps up to the microphone, eyes wide and hands shaking and oh-so brave. 

“Hello. My name is Peter – as you probably know.” 

A few members of the audience chuckle. 

“I just wanted to thank T’Challa and his team at Wakanda Inc. for believing in my skills and my potential. Um.” Screen Peter bites his lip. “Yeah, that’s… that was all. Thank you.”

Tony blinks at the screen. That was… awkwardly endearing. And very much authentic. Tony has to give it to whoever’s in charge of their PR – it’s a bold move. Could very much blow up in their faces, but hey, maybe it’ll get people to speculate about the true nature of Peter’s departure from Stark Industries.

“Okoye said that, too,” Peter tells him, looking wrung out even on the screen of Tony’s phone. “But I don’t… I mean, don’t we want them to forget about it?”

“Yeah, but that’s kinda hard when you’re splashed across the front pages of every online news outlet in the country, right?”

On the other end of the line, he sees Peter nod before the _ping_ from a new message makes him look up again. 

The way his features derail sends a spike of panic through Tony’s chest. 

“Kid?”

“I… uh. It’s from…” 

His finger comes closer to the screen to tap something but Tony doesn’t need to hear confirmation to know how that sentence finishes. 

He holds his breath as he watches Peter’s eyes flick over the screen, reading and processing whatever the bastard wrote. He’s gone a worrying shade of pale. 

“I… I’ll send you screenshot.”

Tony counts his breaths as he paces the length of his penthouse kitchen, waiting for the pic. Peter didn’t even crop it down to show only the message and for some reason, that warms something in Tony’s chest. It’s awesome the kid trusts him like that. 

From: Quentin Beck  
_Hello babe, great performance today. First Stark, now T’Challa. You’re more of a slut than I thought. Congratulations on your new position._

“I don’t have the read receipts on or anything,” Peter says while Tony forces his mind to stay in the here and now, not fantasize about eviscerating Beck at his earliest convenience, “so he won’t know I saw it, and I’m not gonna… Ms. Jaheem says I shouldn’t give him any power over me, so I shouldn’t respond, right? He’s, he’s a troll, and you don’t feed them.”

As much as Tony appreciates that the imagery helps Peter, he thinks troll is much too positive an entity for the vile scum that is Quentin Beck. 

“So I’ll… yeah, I’ll ignore him. Right? No, my decision. Um. Yeah. I’ll ignore him.”

“Whatever you want, kid,” Tony finally manages. “Your call. Could always block him, though.”

Peter grows quiet for several moments. 

“And I’ll figure out how he got your number. It’s supposed to be unlisted, for fuck’s sake!”

Peter startles, as though that didn’t even occur to him. “Maybe Victoria?”

“Oh yeah, that viper… JARVIS, boot up my station in the workshop, I got some recon to do.”

“Tony, you don’t need to –”

“But I want to. Besides: my company. I’m not just protecting a friend.”

Peter ducks his head, blushing. 

Something about it makes Tony want to reach out, to rest a reassuring hand on Peter’s arm… but he can’t cause they’re on the phone, for fuck’s sake. Why hasn’t he invented holographic calls yet? 

Unaware of his inner turmoil, Peter clears his throat. “Keep you posted, okay?”

“Sure, kid,” Tony say, trying to pour all of the feelings into his tone. 

Judging by the soft smile he gets in response, he succeeded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the final leg of this story, folks! Like I said, it might end up being 19 chapters in total, and I am armed with a plan as opposed to a vague sense of what would happen once I got to this point, which made writing ch16 quite challenging xD 
> 
> I so, so love how engaged you are in this story ♥ I can’t thank you enough.
> 
> In other news, I’ve actually published [my first ebooks](https://www.amazon.de/Jay-Pendragon/e/B089VQZH9R/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1), yay!


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